Starry Night
by MeanderingM
Summary: McCoy's alien lady Soli Anon becomes acquainted with his mother (!) and her own families. The interweaving of love, bigotry, and acceptance impact, complicate, and enrich their lives.
1. Chapter 1

**Prelude: Back in the Saddle Again**

"Ow! Ow! Stop! Stop it! Oh, wait, you did, you already did. Thanks, that's better." Anon's gloved hands have flown to Simbollah's head, her left hand rubbing the red shirt's head just above the ear; the right hand massages the base of her friend's head. "I give up. I just don't know why it works when we do music and never any other time."

"I'm sorry, Simbollah, so, so sorry," Anon murmurs. I wish, I wish I could be in your head for giggles and conversation, but it's no good. And I won't keep putting you through this."

Simbollah sighs, and rolls her head from side-to-side, pushing into Anon's calloused fingertips. "It's so cool when we make music and you're in my head, and so awful the rest of the times. Like having tinnitus with a migraine on steroids. I'm with you. We've tried and tried. Enough."

Anon continues pressing her powerful fingers into and around the sensitive areas of Simbollah's head until her friend's shoulders finally unknot themselves, at which point the blue shirt rotates away to settle herself in front of her keyboard. "Better? So, let's make music, shall we? Can we play 'Lark in the Clear Air?' I'll tickle the ivories, and send you the other instruments, and it will be lovely." She smiles at Simbollah – no hard feelings. As usual.

"I'd like that," Simbollah smiles back. "It's my favorite – just about got it memorized. And yeah, get in my head. You want to give the tempo, or should I?"

"You should. You're the lark, after all."

Simbollah closes her eyes, focuses her mind, rocks her body in rhythm, raises her flute to her lips, and tootles the opening notes. Anon watches, listens, sways in unison, and joins in the music-making. For Simbollah, the transition from pain to bliss passes as seamlessly as the notes themselves.

You're back. I knew you would be. Familiar territory, am I right? Soli Anon wanting so very much to get into a friend's head, trying to make it work, upsetting her friend's equilibrium, devastated at her failure, going on to the next thing. No problem, no bother, move on. Always move on. It's okay. It's always okay.

How can that be? Soli Anon's story is compelling and perplexing. That's why you're here, yes? I'm merely the not-at-all humble narrator, and the best storyteller you ever heard, amirite?

I shall tell this story, the next measure of Soli Anon's life, but I fear I must have less of a presence than in the first story. You see, I will make an appearance in this story, so it is only fair to the rest of the characters that I not overwhelm them all with my omnipotent, amazing self. I will be restrained and show myself at the proper time but allow the rest of the story to run on its own narrative.

This is a perfect example of why I am the best beloved storyteller in the Continuum. Hold your applause until the end.

Oh, you say you missed the first measure of Soli Anon's life and want to know what how we got here? Tough luck. Look it up. The rest of us are moving on.

Well, not all of us. Some of us have just landed here. But that's "H-is-for-Horrible" for you: a typical Continuum high-flying lowlife telling the rest of us to ... um, well, something not nice. But the rest of us new arrivals can reasonably request some background, specifically about Soli Anon, and here it is.

Thirty-six Terran years old, but not Terran. Educated on Bolarus 9, but not Bolian. Born on Rrannimm but with the only memories of her birth planet provided by her Ktak abductor. Not an obvious candidate for the Federation's flagship, except for the reason she was stolen in the first place.

The Ktak who was called Keeper was the sole responsible party for her peripatetic existence. She well knew of Soli's special skill because it was the Ktak civilization that had provided that skill half a million years earlier. It was a Ktak biological trait, one they attempted through DNA manipulation to pass on to many promising species in the galaxy, but which only took in the Rrannimmese people.

The trait, that skill can be described in one word: neural communication.

No, wait. One word: telepathy.

No, stop. Two words: neural communication.

Neural communication, though overly long, is a better descriptor. Telepathy, for us lowly Terrans, makes us think of words, fully-formed thoughts, flashing back and forth between two people. Neural communication is much richer than language, although it includes language. Sight, sound, taste, smell, touch, and yes, language can all be communicated via natural transmitters and receivers in the brain.

Keeper, the last of the Ktak to venture off-planet, kidnapped Soli when the child was three; Keeper artificially enhanced Soli's neural communication ability six years later, and sent her off into the near and far reaches of the galaxy seven years after that.

 _Starry Night_ is the second in the series about the life story of Solitaire Uniqueum Anon. _The Scream_ was the first, in which Soli – rhymes with holy, not jolly, unless you wrongly think jolly and holy rhyme with each other – survives abduction and abuse to wind up on the Enterprise.

Dr. McCoy falls in love with the strange alien Soli Anon; addicted to her sensuousness, enthralled with her many cultural obsessions, awed by her attempts to cope with her life trauma as best she can - as any human would try to do. Their relationship is fraught, not least because McCoy's mother is opposed to Starfleet, the Federation, and any and all associations with alien species.

Separate from Anon's personal and social complications, Mr. Spock pursues the location of her home planet, having realized that her neural communication ability puts her at risk in a competitive and hostile galaxy, and puts her primitive and helpless fellow Rrannimmese in even greater danger once their gifts are revealed.

 **Glossary of Made-up Terms in Starry Night (there may be others I overlooked)**

AC Auto-Clave (laundry cleaning device)

CT2 Contraceptive

Khan Genetic compound for quick but temporary healing

PT Physical Training

Author's note: It would be better if you read The Scream first. I tried in this story to make it unnecessary, but still, I can't be sure I succeeded, so, just saying, it would be better.

I loved the concept and the cast for the Star Trek 2009 reboot, but felt the story lines belonged in a James Bond movie (super villain with doomsday weapon), not Star Trek. So the Scream, Starry Night, and Relativity (not yet written, Gosh!) are my personal contribution of what Star Trek has meant to me. Hope you enjoy it/them. And no, I have not psychic abilities: I had no idea when I began the trilogy that issues of stealing children from their parents and bigotry towards outsiders would be a real-life real-time horror show. But that is what Star Trek always did, so nobody should be surprised.


	2. Chapter 2

**Section 1: Amazing Grace**

 **Chapter 1: The Boys of Summer**

Kirk, Spock, McCoy. Captain of the Enterprise, Chief Science Officer, Chief Medical Officer. It has been a month since the eye-opening Reynos 3 briefing; Kirk has been deflecting political pressure to declassify the briefing, Spock has made notable progress on his search for the two planets of interest, and McCoy has plotted out a series of tests to perform on Anon's most unusual brain.

Kirk and McCoy have already agreed to break open the bottle of single malt Scotch, Kirk's drink of choice, after the meeting. Spock is not a drinker and has respectfully declined. So logically, his contribution to the meeting comes first.

"It was relatively easy to locate the planet that Ensign Anon calls 'Ktak,'" Spock begins. "It is in a quadrant of the galaxy infrequently visited, but computer analyses showed that each expedition corresponded to a disparity between the captains' logs and the ships' computer records. Only one ship's captain noticed the deviation. Repeated diagnostics failed to resolve the differences, and she abandoned the effort. She ultimately blamed, as she put it, 'the ghost in the machine.' Later tests at a star base also were unable to explain the disparity, but in light of Anon's description, I am confident I have attained a strong level of resolution of the cause, namely a false vision of the monitors communicated neurologically by the Ktak.

"Thus, the results of the analyses pinpointed the location of Ktak. If any of the Ktak should wish to abduct a crew or steal a starship by deception, judging from the ensign's experience, they should have no difficulty doing so. Therefore, I recommend a perimeter of 500K kilometers to avoid being near enough to the planet to risk the dangers of contact by the inhabitants, 400K kilometers being the limit of their transmission, again, assuming the ensign's analysis and understanding are accurate."

"Thanks, Spock." Kirk nods in approval. "Do you think you could prepare a report that makes that recommendation without giving so much supporting detail that some clown in Admin decides it's a better idea to check the place out immediately?"

Spock raises an eyebrow. "I believe I could. Without actual dishonesty, of course."

"Of course. It would get Starfleet off my ass for at least one part of the issue for at least a little while longer. And give the fourth estate something new to form conspiracy theories about."

Kirk pushes his hair back, though it promptly flops onto his forehead again and into his eyes, then continues, "What about Anon's home planet? Any ideas?"

Spock shakes his head. "None that were fruitful. The biometrics recorded when Anon screamed were insufficient to use for a wide-ranging computer search. I found nothing in Starfleet records corresponding to them. I am looking forward to hearing Dr. McCoy's proposals for gathering more data."

Both Kirk and Spock turn expectantly toward McCoy. He clears his throat. "Let's be clear. I have very few medical records to go on. Most of my knowledge is … personal. Understand, I haven't shared with Anon some of what I've learned about the structure and functioning of her brain when she communicates neurally. I think it would upset her. It damn sure upset me. She has agreed to help, to cooperate, but it is not going to be straightforward.

"Now that's out of the way, here's what I propose: Dr. Chenoweth will make the medical tricorder measurements and recordings."

McCoy holds up his hand as Kirk and Spock begin to protest. "Wait a damn minute. Chenoweth is Anon's attending, and somewhat trusted by her. As much as she has ever trusted a doctor. I have to be the second subject in these experiments. I know you don't like it, but there is no one else who can be the recipient and source of Anon's neural communication, and I can't also be doing the measurements. I have complete confidence that Chenoweth will keep the entire affair confidential." Spock nods; Kirk grimaces, then waves his hand in acquiescence.

"Okay, then. Chenoweth uses the medical tricorder to research brain activity. Spock, you use the standard tricorder to measure wavelength, radiation, frequency, power, whatever makes your little heart go pitter-patter. We will perform these tests on a shuttle, far enough from the Enterprise to eliminate interference with the crew."

"How far would that be, Doctor?" Spock queries.

McCoy answers, "For the first series of tests, a kilometer is safe. Later, we need to move farther away, so any emotional explosion doesn't splatter all over the Enterprise. You wouldn't like that, Mr. Spock."

Spock involuntarily pulls back, and Kirks smiles at his First Officer's rare expression of discomfiture.

McCoy glances at his notes on the console. "Here's my take on what we measure, in sequence: short-range reception; short-range transmission, short-range simultaneous transmission and reception. Skin-to-skin, same three parameters. All these tests would be with Spock, Anon, Chenoweth and me on a single shuttle. We would need a second shuttle for the remaining tests, at mid-range and distance. I will be on that second shuttle."

Kirk frowns at this, and Spock raises an eyebrow. McCoy continues, "now, I cannot be piloting while this is going on. You two have the pilot experience. Do we grab a fifth person to pilot the second shuttle? Tractor beam? Something else?"

Kirk rolls his eyes. "Why not invite the whole crew, Bones? Pilots, navigators, security."

McCoy scowls, then sighs and shrugs his shoulders. "I know. If it could be done in one of the science labs, I'd be the first to sign on. But we need distance, so we are stuck with the shuttlecrafts. The skin-to-skin is out of Anon's control, lord knows what will happen long distance, and there's also a hand-to-hand form of communication that, well, don't even get me started on."

Spock interjects, "I believe I can sync the controls of the shuttlecraft such that we do not need additional crew for piloting. I may be able to do some measurements remotely; let us decide that after we have completed the first few sets. I am most intrigued that you distinguish between skin-to-skin and hand-to-hand. Could you describe the difference?"

"No." Spock raises his eyebrow again, and McCoy repeats, emphatically, "No. The internal effects are different. That's all you need to know for now, and all I'm going to say about it. You'll measure what you measure. The distances I propose for the different tests are in the file I sent you. Let me know if you have any suggestions for improvements or additional tests after you've reviewed it, Spock."

The science officer rises and confirms, "I shall give it my full consideration, Doctor, and I will prepare to move forward. I am obliged to remind you that the temporary Geo Lab leader, Commander Stanley, Starfleet Academy Emeritus, will arrive in three days' time to assume his position. Obviously, due to the unusual circumstances of his arrival, I will require more than is typically entailed to address the commander's orientation to his new role, adding to my duties over the next few days."

Spock doesn't look at McCoy during his monolog, but Kirk does, and he sees a frown concealing the doctor's emotions. Spock continues, "I believe neither of you have met him."

McCoy and Kirk shake their heads in unison. "As part of Commander Stanley's orientation, I must complete some administrative tasks before I can return to the project at hand. In addition, I have arranged a reunion of all the Enterprise science department crew members whom he taught."

Kirk's eyes widen, and he grins broadly. "A reunion? A party? You're throwing a party? What's got into you, Spock?"

Spock doesn't even raise an eyebrow. "It was Lieutenant Uhura's suggestion. I thought it an excellent one. You will have the opportunity to meet Commander Stanley at the officers' reception tomorrow evening. Prior to his retirement from the Academy, he had served Starfleet for almost a half century. I was a student of his myself as a first-year and again during officer training. I have the utmost regard for him. That is all I have to contribute at this time. Captain?"

Kirk shakes his head again. "We're fine for now. Well done." Spock departs briskly.

Kirk rubs his cheek pensively, blue eyes unfocused. McCoy studies his old friend, then leans over and claps him on the back. "Didn't you promise me a Scotch?"

Kirk comes back to himself. "Yes, I did."

He spins out of his chair and reaches into the cabinet for the bottle and a pair of glasses. McCoy pushes himself away from the table and reclines, relaxed, He much prefers these meetings in the captain's ready room to those in the conference room. Especially when followed by a companionable whiskey.

Kirk uses the replicator to produce ice cubes, then pours two fingers of the golden liquid in each glass. He hands one to McCoy, clicks glasses and toasts, "Here's to good relations with telepathic women."

McCoy, dumbstruck, leaves his glass suspended, staring at Kirk. "Say what, Jim?"

Kirk studies his drink, takes a large gulp. "You're a fine Southern gentleman, so I wouldn't ask you to kiss and tell, but, Bones, what is it like? That little ensign was only in my head in the worst way, but what's it like for you when she's in your head in the best way?"

McCoy doesn't reply, but lowers his glass, rotating it in his hand. Kirk lets the silence grow to a roar, then backs off. "Sorry, Bones. That came out wrong. This whole project feels wrong, and I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around it. Let's start over. We've been friends for a long time, and I've never known you to be attached to a woman. I'm … fascinated, as Spock would say, by this side of you I've never seen."

McCoy finally sips his own drink, contemplatively, swirls the ice with his forefinger, round and round. "I've never seen this side of me either, Jim. Still trying to make sense of it."

Kirk waits again, bolts his whiskey, wipes his mouth. "You never told me exactly what went down between you and your ex, just that it was bad." McCoy's shoulders rise slightly, and he takes another swallow. Kirk continues, "After all these years, I was sure that you had sworn off the complications of relationships forever …"

McCoy interrupts. "'Confirmed old bachelor, and likely to remain so.'"

"Exactly!" Kirk exclaims. "Here you are, a different man. Do you … Can she … I shouldn't …"

"Yes."

Kirk, eyes flashing, reaches for the whiskey to refill but is stopped by McCoy's stony glare. Kirk chuckles, "Yes, what?"

"Yes, you shouldn't."

Kirk regards his friend. "What's gotten into you? I'm happy for you, Bones. I really am. You know what? I'm even jealous of you. You'd been pissed off for years, from the day we entered Academy until a few months ago. You bitched about your ex plenty. Now there's a woman who has made you a happy man, and you won't talk about it?"

McCoy doesn't respond, except to take the bottle from Kirk, open it, and pour another drink for himself and his friend, his captain. He stands, adds more ice from the replicator, and eases back down, setting the glass on his belly, eyes distant. Kirk sets his own glass on the table and waits.

Finally, McCoy makes eye contact. "She does make me happy, Jim. I know my med team used to call me the Old Curmudgeon. Behind my back."

"That wasn't fair. I wouldn't have called you a curmudgeon." Kirk picks up his glass and purses his lips, conspicuously, as though to take a sip. McCoy raises an eyebrow, waits in vain for the rimshot. When it doesn't come, he goes on.

"She loves me, thoroughly. I know it, and it … amazes me. But it's more than that. Scientists always need partnerships, but, Jim, if a scientist can have a muse in the way an artist does, she'd be my muse. She listens, remembers, pulls together different strands of my research to come up with new directions. She's interested in everything about me, even when I drone on."

"That is exceptional, Bones."

McCoy half smiles. "Sarcasm duly noted." He shifts his position, places his glass on the table. "I love her, too, but I'm no good at drawing her out. She … She's a very private person."

"That scream that woke up the galaxy wasn't private, my friend," Kirk reminded him.

"No. And she has never gotten over it. She was humiliated. But you know, Jim, that should be her normal state."

McCoy hastens to clarify as Kirk rises to protest. "Not screaming, of course, but being neurally connected. She wouldn't have screamed if she'd been connected. She tamps it down, fights it off, but it's what she wants, always. Problem is, it makes humans crazy. Janay … Andersen got to where she could be connected for over three hours. Me? Maybe an hour and a half. At most."

"Wait a minute, Bones," Kirk interjects. "When she was being dug out of the mine, you were connected for a couple of days."

"That was different. We were connected, but if all that's happening is she's listening, I can't feel a thing, so I'm fine. During those days, mostly I just rambled on about what progress was being made and who was stopping by, and it helped pass the time, kept her calm. She refrained from talking to me so it wouldn't give me that blasted headache I get. One reason I want to be part of Spock's experiments is to maybe figure out what causes it and prevent it somehow."

"Sorry, Bones, I didn't realize that."

"When she … when we touch, her feelings automatically connect with mine. We're in constant communication. She doesn't probe, it's not like the Vulcan mind meld, which is also a pretty unpleasant experience, as you well know."

"Damn, straight. At the briefing, she was adamant that she doesn't spy. So that would be a difference with the mind meld, too, which is nothing but spying." Kirk is ignoring his drink, studying McCoy, his oldest friend in Starfleet, and right now a stranger to him.

Finally, McCoy takes another slug of the whiskey and grants Kirk a half smile. "Yes, it is. No more questions about neural communication, okay? Please, Jim."

Kirk nods in affirmation. "Fine, Bones, you've made your point. So, let's talk about you, instead."

McCoy pulls back, eyes narrowed. Kirk laughs, "Relax, my friend! I just want to get to know the new Leonard McCoy. The no-longer-curmudgeonly, but not-getting-any-younger McCoy."

McCoy leans forward, plops his glass on the table, pulls his hair and scratches the back of his head. "What do you want to know about the new me, Jim? Older, wiser, happier? Yes, no, yes. So, done?"

Kirk seizes McCoy's whiskey glass and hands it back. "So, no, not done, old man." McCoy tips his glass to the captain, sips, and firmly places the glass back on the table.

"Tell me, Bones, you and your woman are crazy about each other. The way you talked about her just now – it's more than infatuation or a fling. Planning a commitment ceremony? Or a wedding? You know how much I like officiating a shipboard wedding. Babies? You want babies with her? We could use more children on the Enterprise – helps remind people of what matters."

McCoy raises first one eyebrow, then the other. "Commitment, Wedding? Babies? I've no idea? We haven't talked about any of that."

"Well, what do you want? I'm asking you as a friend. My friend of longest standing. And, okay, as a nosy buttinsky. Your business is the Enterprise's business, and the ship's business is my business. Open up, Bones!"

McCoy drums his fingers on the tabletop, then caresses it as though looking for an excuse to dust and polish the gleaming surface. But his mind is on Kirk's questions. No, he's not getting any younger. He has already outlived his own father by two years; his father had been married for fifteen years by this age and had two adoring children. Anon, his beloved, makes no demands on him, never gets angry, lets his snappish temper peter out without retribution (he still is, he must admit, something of a curmudgeon), and is an enthusiastic, magical, lover . She's everything he's ever hoped for in a life partner.

McCoy looks directly at his friend. "You know what, Jim? We haven't had these conversations, and honestly, I don't know why. I can see myself with her for the rest of my life, and … when we're neurally connected I know she feels the same way. But I've let it slide. As for babies, I would love to have children with her, although it's impossible to know whether we're genetically compatible – not many species successfully cross-breed."

"Another thing I did not know, Bones." Now it's Kirk's turn to raise his eyebrows. "I assumed that there were lots of half-this/half-that people running around. How rare is it?"

"Frankly," McCoy confesses, "I've never calculated the odds. Nor specifically researched it. But as a doctor I've seen far more mixed couples frustrated by failure to conceive than celebrating a new life. If I had to guess, I'd say less than a quarter of the combinations I know of have been successful, but that's just anecdotal. Hmm. I guess Soli and I really should talk about it, but I've been happy with things as they are. Not to mention …" McCoy falls into contemplation again.

"Not to mention what?" McCoy doesn't respond, doesn't even look at him.

Kirk grips his friend's shoulder. "Glad we had this little chat, Bones. Any time you need help throwing your life into disarray, just call on me."

Deep in the recesses of the Shuttle Bay, stretched out on a long seat converted to a cozy bench, McCoy and Anon lie entwined, recovering, spent, joyful. McCoy recalls his conversation with Kirk two days ago; he knows he left the impression that the shared feelings with Anon were primarily emotional. It's an easy impression to leave, because experiencing her love for him lifts his spirits, gives him confidence, sticks with him. But the sharing of their physical feelings while making love – he has no intention of discussing that with Kirk or with anyone else. Ah, but Kirk pressed him: Commitment. Babies. He contemplates bringing it up with Anon but cannot for the life of him conceive of a casual opening. He doesn't have to.

 _What's the matter, my love?_ Anon has sensed confusion, uncertainty in his mind, and walks right in.

Sometimes McCoy wishes she weren't quite so attuned to him; it takes him off guard. Nonetheless he responds neurally, _Nothing's really the matter, dear heart. I've been wondering. Do you ever think about having children with me?_

Anon's head tilts back as she looks up at him. He leans to kiss her forehead, but before he can she reacts verbally. "No. Of course not. Why would you even ask me that?"

Stunned at her emphatic rejection of the notion, McCoy pushes her away, but she's not having it. She pulls herself closer and closes her eyes. _Oh, I see_. _You want to. But it's impossible. And you know me. I don't want what I can't have._

Now he does kiss her forehead and draws his arms closer around her. _I know there could be complications in conception, but that's not the same thing as impossible, Soli._

Anon slips out of his grasp and sits up next to him, regarding him with her deep violet eyes. She strokes his face, and he can feel her love of him through her fingertips. His confidence in her devotion mixes with confusion; he pulls himself up to sit beside her.

"Leonard, Starfleet would never give us permission. I'm not the doctor in this relationship, but even I know we'd be rejected out of hand. What's my gestation period? Nobody knows. As brief as a marsupial Urbanian – like, what, six weeks? As long as a slow-developing Vulcan – like eleven months? Somewhere in between? Or even longer?"

She's already thought about this and did the research, McCoy realizes. Of course, she did. And she didn't mention it to him because of course she didn't.

"You're right," McCoy acknowledges. "It was just an idle thought on my part, but of course, Starfleet has to plan every detail of every crew member on every starship, and they'd never go for a pregnancy of a complete unknown like you." He puts his arm around her waist and once again pulls her closer. She leans her head against his chest; he can feel his heartbeat through her mind.

 _Soli, if we didn't have to get approval from Starfleet, would you want to have a child with me?_ There. A specific question stands a much better chance of getting an answer that doesn't gobsmack him. She doesn't immediately reply, and when she does, she still manages to throw him a curveball.

 _It's possible. But I'm less than a year into a Starfleet commitment that will last at least five years, and more likely six, so they say. You'd be in your fifties by then. You may decide you don't want to wait so long. Terrans do change their minds about their lovers, and you might, too. I can't expect you to wait, so I try not to think about it. It's okay, my love. Like I said, I don't want …_

 _What you can't have. I know_. McCoy finds himself perturbed, and she senses it as well, pulling away. For a moment he fears the separation, then feels relief as she relaxes and snuggles in again, sighing.

 _I don't mean to upset you, Leonard. If and when I have a solid answer, you'll be the first to know_.

 _Oh, thank you. That's a comfort_. Anon isn't a Terran, but she has learned to identify sarcasm when she hears it. She walks her fingers up his spine until she reaches his head. She tips her face up and pulls him in for a deep kiss. Physically probing, exciting, anticipatory. Emotionally engaging, enveloping. Being a Terran male, he promptly forgets everything else.

"Ensign Anon. Your team leader has entered the Geo Lab."

Spock steps aside to present Andersen's replacement, Commander Stanley.

"Welcome to the Enterprise Geo Team, Commander Stanley. I am Ensign Anon. I'm honored to serve under your command." Anon recites the welcome address to the new lab leader as though it weren't simultaneously breaking her heart.

Stanley and Anon take each other's measure. Stanley is possessed of dark hair and eyes, like the other two blue shirts in Anon's life, but there the resemblance ends. He is only 1.7 meters tall, well shorter than Spock or McCoy, shorter than the lanky Andersen had been.

His face is lined, though less than most men his age with a specialty in geology – he has been spared from sun damage by his decades teaching at the Academy rather than doing field work. He is slender, narrow-shouldered, but his powerful hands reveal his work life's history.

He is missing the top knuckle of the pinkie finger of his left hand. A badge of honor: it could have been repaired but he chose not to have the surgery to do so. His hair is silky and has only a few streaks of gray.

For his part, he sees a small, olive-skinned woman with elfin ears. Her hands, like his, are those of a geologist: strong and calloused. Her red hair is thick and soft, pulled back in a careless ponytail, with two incongruous white stripes, one at her right temple, the other growing from the nape of her neck. Her eyes are a startling shade of purple, but he only sees them briefly before she aims them at the floor and all he sees are her eyelids.

Stanley's doe eyes are warm and reassuring, famously so for his former students fumbling with unfamiliar tools and solvents. His posture is erect, commanding respect for his varied leadership roles. He searches for the usual response to these attributes but finds nothing.

Anon is ... not cold, certainly not hostile. She is indifferent, that's it. She glances at him, shies away. The silence between them could have grown unbearable, but he is practiced at rapid assessments of his students and uses that skill to determine how best to connect with his new lab mate, his first in over forty years.

Stanley goes with his gut at such times, so he disregards the customary formal reply, seizes both Anon's hands in his own and instead responds, "Thank you for your welcoming words, but I must tell you how sorry I am about the circumstances. Janay Andersen was a remarkable person, and Commander Spock tells me you two were particularly close. I can't replace her as a friend, but perhaps we can get off to a good start if you will call me Iron Man. You are Rock Head, yes?"

Anon's eyes narrow and dart to Spock's impassive face before connecting with Stanley's. She doesn't smile but answers amiably. "Yes, sir, I am Rock Head. Mr. Spock, you must have told Commander Stanley about our lab nicknames. How very kind of you."

Spock replies, "Not at all, Ensign. It is only logical to maintain a successful approach, however unconventional, to a working relationship. I trust you will make the most of your opportunity to learn from Commander Stanley, a decorated Starfleet geologist and Academy Department Chair Emeritus."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'll try, sir." Anon clasps her hands in front, then in back, settles on dangling them by her sides. She has yet to crack a smile. "Um, allow me to show you around the lab, Commander Stanley Iron Man, and then you may wish to review my work on the new mineral we recovered from … from Reynos 3."

Anon's voice trails off, but Stanley picks up the thread. "Very good, Ensign Rock Head." He is finally rewarded with a small smile. "Thank you, Commander Spock, for bringing me up to speed in the operation of the Geo Lab. I look forward to my time here."

"Good day, Commander." Spock and Stanley nod at each other, and Spock departs the lab.

Anon bolts to the computer display, skids to a stop. She throws her arms in wide arcs, flicking her fingers randomly. "Well, this is the Geo Lab. What you'd expect."

The tour of the lab is apparently complete. While punching a few keys at the console she babbles, "I hope you find my testing and analysis and recommendations and observations and reports and everything satisfactory, sir. Iron Man."

Stanley smiles. "Sir Iron Man? That's a bit much, don't you think?"

Anon's gaze hits the floor again as she stammers, "No, sir. I mean, yes, Iron Man. I wasn't …"

"Show me what you got." Stanley's voice is deep and encouraging.

Anon's awkwardness disappears as she transforms into a geologist and brings up the compilation folder. "Here are the test results of my investigations. I sent samples to the Chem and Radiology Labs, and here are the links to their results so far. On the basis of their combined recommendations I sent samples to Engineering along with the science lab analyses. Plus, I sent samples to the Bio Labs, in case they wanted to test it as a growing medium. Here are …"

"Whoa, wait a minute, Rock Head. How many files and tests and analyses and recommendations are we talking?" Stanley leans over the console, frowns, then pulls back and stares at her, agog.

"81, sir. Iron Man."

His face relaxes. "You're doing it again." His smile is broader now. His first impression had been _how did someone like Janay Andersen connect with this odd creature_. Now he is beginning to understand. Andersen would have loved her energy and enthusiasm, and yes, her unabashed weirdness.

"Right, Iron Man. Sorry, sir. The files are ordered by date. I mean, I didn't attempt to establish a priority. Didn't think it was my prerogative. As I thought of something that was interesting, I initiated, conducted, and recorded the results of tests. After your review – or right now if you want – I'll continue based on the priorities you choose. I do have a concern about the samples. None of them is raw. All of them have been treated to mold to a desired shape. We … we … somebody needs to return to Reynos 3 to gather some untreated samples. Um. that's all I got. What would you like me to do next?"

As she spoke, Stanley had resumed selecting and scrolling the folder and its files. Now he shakes his head ruefully. "Damned if I know. Would you give me a minute to look this over? Or an hour. Maybe a day. Or five. 81 files did you say?"

"Yes, sir, Iron Man. I did as much as I could. But careful and thorough like I was trained."

Stanley begins scanning the file names, opening some and paging down, while Anon paces, alternating wringing and flapping her hands. In no time Stanley has had his fill and snaps, "Find something else to do, Ensign. I need to focus on this, and I can't do it when you're fluttering around like a hungry mosquito."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I'll go to the gym and do my PT, sir." Anon flees the Geo lab.

Four hours later, Stanley strolls into the gym, spots Anon on the treadmill. There's an open machine next to hers, so he signs into PT and steps onto the adjoining apparatus. Neither speaks to the other. He starts his own session at a slow walk, gradually increasing the pace. She is staring straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to him. As he begins to breathe heavily – it's been years since he trained seriously, and he feels it – she startles him by inquiring, "Did you finish? Was everything okay? What did I miss? What are your orders?"

Stanley grunts. "Don't you ever slow down?" He's already breathing hard and speaks brusquely to conceal it from her. Unfortunately, he can't fool his own lungs.

"Yes, sir, of course I do. Computer – set treadmill pace to 4 KPH." As the treadmill obediently slows, Anon switches from jogging to walking to plodding. She steals a glance at him, tips her head back, stares ahead again, finally smiles shyly, then more broadly.

Despite his breathlessness, Stanley starts to laugh, then loses both his physical and mental equilibrium, causing him to stumble. Even before he reacts to his loss of control, Anon's arm shoots out, grips his forearm, and supports him. She commands, "Stop treadmill." Her machinery stops smoothly.

Stanley's apparatus belatedly reacts to his uneven pace, shivering to a halt, raising the safety bars, blinking red lights, and sending the alarm to the PT console. The trainer appears at Stanley's side. "Are you okay, sir? Can I help you?"

Embarrassed now, Stanley waves the trainer off, grasps the safety bars, catches his breath. Anon had released his arm as soon as he reached for the safety bars, but now regards him, her brows knitted. She shrugs her shoulders, mutters, "Okay then. Computer – set treadmill pace at 11.5." The belt begins to move again, gaining speed, and she resumes jogging.

After a moment of recovery, bent over with his hands on his knees, Stanley changes tactics. "I wasn't talking about your treadmill pace, Ensign Anon. I meant your lab work."

Anon looks away. "That's what I was afraid of. I preferred to hope you were talking about PT."

Stanley has recovered, and studies Anon's face, impassive again. "We really seem to be talking past each other. How about we grab a bite in the mess hall, get acquainted."

Anon shrugs her shoulders again, repeats, "Okay then." She jogs a bit more before she commands, "Stop treadmill."

She steps off the machine and looks apprehensively at Stanley. "I'm really sweaty and gross. I'll join you in the mess after I shower and change."

"Don't stand me up, Ensign Rock Head." Stanley's smile is sardonic, but playful.

"I said I'd join you, sir. I never lie." Anon doesn't return his smile but turns and trots to the locker room.

Stanley is beginning to think Anon has abandoned him after all when he spots her at the door to the mess hall, obviously searching for him. He raises his arm in a wave, catches her eye and sees her nod before she goes to the food service area. He waits just a bit more until she has loaded her tray and joined him at his table. She pauses when she notices he only has a glass of water, but shrugs and slides onto the chair opposite him.

"I didn't realize you weren't going to eat. Since yesterday I was too nervous to eat and now I'm famished. Would you like to share?"

"Don't mind me," Stanley assures her, and finishes his water to demonstrate. "I was sitting on my rear for four hours and that was after the class reunion buffet. I won't need any more food for a week."

Anon snaps her napkin across her lap, and fastidiously arranges her utensils: forks on the left, knife and spoons on the right. She spears a forkful of meat pie, waves it under her nose while breathing deeply, brings It to her mouth – what is she doing? Kissing it? No, more like caressing it with her lips – flicks her tongue delicately across it, and abruptly stuffs it into her mouth. Staring is rude, he knows, but he can't look away. She repeats the sequence – a ritual? Avoiding her part of the conversation?

"Is something the matter?" She has paused and stares back at him.

"No, no," Stanley stammers. "I was … You're … I'm wondering …"

"Don't. Don't wonder. Sir. Ask whatever you want." Anon swallows her third mouthful, scoops up a fourth and prior to shoving it in inquires, "So. A class reunion?"

"In a matter of speaking," Stanley explains. "I was an instructor and department head for a very long time. I taught at least Geo 101 to virtually every blue shirt on this ship. Not you, of course. I retired six years ago, so I just missed your class."

Another swallow of the pie, then a spoonful of the chowder before Anon asks, "Why would a department head teach Geo 101? Wouldn't that be beneath your station?"

Such an odd expression, Stanley thinks, but he answers seriously. "For all its rules, Starfleet allows quite a bit of personal flexibility, and I took advantage. I wanted to know every single science geek, why they were there, how they thought, what their strengths and weaknesses were, and that meant Geo 101, a required course for all blue shirts."

"So, were they all at the class reunion?" Anon has polished off the chowder and turns to the fruit salad.

"Yes, indeed. Mr. Spock organized it, quite a surprise and out of character for him. Dragging all those blue shirts out of their labs couldn't have been easy. But there they were …"

"Sounds impressive. How many years were you a professor?" A furrowed brow, another swallow.

A half hour passes in this manner, Anon getting on the outside of her food while interviewing Stanley. After exactly thirty minutes Anon rises and announces, "That was very interesting. Thanks for getting acquainted. Can I go to lab now or should I go back to PT?"

"Wait, what?" Stanley realizes that far from getting to know each other, the get-acquainted chat was entirely one-sided. How did that happen? He is experienced at drawing people out, but she turned the tables on him. All he knows, still, is only what Spock told him. Oh, and that she works compulsively, whether research in lab or exercising in the gym or eating in the mess hall. But he didn't learn any of that from their conversation.

"Neither. Please sit down again. I've gone on and on, must have bored you silly. That wasn't my intent."

Anon remains standing. "I said it was interesting. You have had a wonderful career, lots of adventures and accomplishments. Really. But I should go back to work, don't you think?"

"No, I don't think. Please. Do sit. Don't make me order you. That would be unnecessary and unpleasant, don't you think?"

Stanley gazes steadily at her. Earlier she was indifferent; now she is icy. His fault. Never threaten an underling with an order over something so trivial. He's out of practice. He wracks his brain for a few tidbits besides what Spock had told him about Anon, and in so doing realizes that the only thing anyone at the reunion had mentioned about her was Movie Night. But he'll hold that for if he gets desperate.

Stanley takes a deep breath. "My apologies, Rock Head. Getting acquainted is a two-way endeavor, and I didn't hold up my end. Tell me about yourself. In perusing your Academy records, I noticed a mistake. You were listed as hailing from Bolarus 9. You're clearly not Bolian – what is your home planet?" He leans his chair back on two legs, balancing with his knees under the table.

Anon does sit down, but on the edge of the seat, aiming her shoulder at him and scarcely turning her head. "I'm only Rock Head in lab. That's my rule. And, yes, I am from Bolarus 9. No error. It's a legal fiction, and legal fictions are solemn things."

Stanley adjusts his position, and his chair bangs down onto four legs again. "Where do you get that stuff? Legal fiction, beneath my station. I've never heard either of those expressions. What does any of it even mean?"

Now Anon doesn't even make a pretense of looking at him but speaks to the far corner of the mess hall.

"Nineteenth century light opera. Very funny. Music is my hobby. I run across all sorts of great stuff pursuing it. I'm working on infecting my music friends, so they say stuff like that, too." She sings, "Ah! We act in perfect unity!" She reverts to speech. "Music people have to live in the present but love to dive into the past for inspiration and whatnot. Both in equal measure."

Stanley is baffled, completely unprepared for this sideways conversation. Spock is going to pay for this. That upper corner of the room is downright hypnotic. She can't tear her gaze away. Change the subject. She had hoped he was talking about PT. Let's talk about PT.

"Tell me something. Am I to believe that the entire four hours I was looking over your reports you spent in the gym? How do you do it? I'm on my hands and knees after two."

"I had the same problem until Dr. McCoy postulated that my actual home planet had a higher oxygen content than ship standard. He ordered that my quarters have an additional seven percent oxygen, and that I wear an O2 pack when I'm not in my quarters. If you ask nicely, maybe you could have one, too."

Stanley laughs, "Sounds like a plan. If I'd known, I would've asked him for one during my intake physical. Is that doohickey on your collar the O2 pack?"

Anon fingers the pack. "Huh. 'Doohickey'. That's a new one. I like the sound of it. Doohickey. A very silly word. Yah, the doohickey is the O2 pack."

Stanley waits for more. Nothing. Now he's desperate. So, Movie Night.

"You said you're a music person. I didn't know that. People at the reunion mentioned that you did something called Movie Night. A really popular activity apparently. When's the next one?"

Anon finally looks at him. Neither cold nor indifferent. Pained. Wounded. He has struck a nerve.

"There isn't going to be a next one. Movie Night was Janay's idea. She organized it and reserved the lounge for it and chose and invited new members. She was the Emcee. Movie Night can't happen without her. It's done."

Stanley queries, "I don't understand. Everyone who brought it up – and it was a lot of people – said you are the movie maven. You choose the movies, your band plays in the background – or sometimes the foreground, I think they said. It's all you, so to speak."

"No!" Anon looks at him at last; mouth and eyes so tight she looks years older, "No, it was Janay's idea. I love ... I used to love 2-D movies, and I had shared my favorites with her. She wanted to share them with her other buds and came up with Movie Night. I picked the movies, but all the rest was her. I can't do it. I won't. Can we go back to lab now? I have 45 studies to finish. Please, Commander, I want to get back to work. We're acquainted now, I think."

Stanley pushes his empty glass to the side and leans in, elbows on the table, arms crossed. "I disagree. We haven't even begun. Since we may well be lab mates for a good long time …"

Anon interrupts, "No. You are temporary lab manager. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for your interest in the way things were in lab, with me and Janay. You've been kindhearted in an awful situation, and I do appreciate it. But you'll be replaced at Academy graduation time, yes?"

Now that he finally has her full attention, Stanley holds her gaze.

"Perhaps. But not likely. Lab teams typically last for many years. I knew what I was getting into when I told Spock I would step up, but apparently, you don't."

Anon's face is a dark kaleidoscope, flickering: grim, hesitant, stony, nervous. Stanley continues, "Andersen's lab leader was beyond ready for promotion to a chief science officer. When Andersen demonstrated the capacity to be lab leader, both promotions took place. Do you see? You came in as her lab mate, and the expectation was that you and Andersen would be a team for a decade or more."

Stanley sees her shoulders heaving; she is gulping for air, no tears but her eyes look glassy. Thanks a lot, Spock, leaving me with this godawful explanation to make.

"I have committed to being the Enterprise Geo lab leader for as long as it takes to find a new leader, or for you to be found worthy of promotion. Spock believes that candidates will be eager to serve on the Enterprise, but my experience is that teams are reluctant to split up and often turn down promotions to stay together. It would be easier to find a complete team to transfer than a single member. So, you and I must develop a partnership. Personal feelings notwithstanding."

Stanley notes that Anon has regained control of her breathing, and her eyes look normal again. What the hell was that anyway?

He lightens his tone. "Come, tell me how you're a Bolian but not a Bolian. A legal fiction? Explain that. And where did the whimsical nicknames come from? Why do the Academy records say that you're twenty-six but the Enterprise records say that you're thirty-five? Yes, I have been paying close attention. I'm a scientist, seeking facts not whimsy. Especially about someone I'm going to share a lab with for an unknown period of time. Start talking, Ensign Anon. Reveal yourself."

Anon speaks rapidly, without affect. "I'm Bolian because that was where I landed after I was picked up by a Ferenghi trading ship. Legally I was a refugee, and Bolarus 9 had to take me in. I don't know what my home planet is. Was that your real question? Mr. Spock is researching that issue; I don't know the status of his findings. You could ask him if you care to.

"I like rocks. I'm a rock head. But I came up with Rock Head as a nickname when I met Janay. You must have seen in my Academy records that I nearly flunked out after my first year for being antisocial. Instead of kicking me out they assigned Janay to be my guide – you know, the fourth-year mentoring the second-year system? I was trying really hard not to be such a loser loner, and I proposed a stupid nickname to Janay as part of that. She loved it, named herself Block Head because of her sculptor background, and, well, we kept it up.

"The Academy got my personal data from the Bolians. The data was wrong because the Bolians didn't believe me when I told them my age. Dr. McCoy did believe me and changed my records accordingly. Is that all?"

"It's a decent start," Stanley answers, a bit distractedly as he tries to absorb the rush of words. Anon promptly stands up and turns toward the door, as Stanley adds, "But not nearly enough."

Anon sighs dramatically and lowers herself back onto the edge of her seat. Stanley decides to tiptoe around the dark abyss, knowing he cannot put it off for much longer.

"So, on the subject of your records, there was something curious. Spock's reports differed greatly from Andersen's. There were a number of projects Spock reported on that seemed to have nothing to do with your geo lab duties. What's a rock head doing roped into collaborations between botanists and chemists?"

He holds up his hand as she starts to object. "I'm not calling you by your nickname, I'm a rock head, too. I'd be annoyed as hell having to sit in on a dispute between weed-eaters and beaker breakers."

He grins and is rewarded with arched eyebrows followed by an actual laugh, genuine, full-throated, the first he's heard. He leans back on two chair legs again and sees her relax into a sprawl across her seat.

"It doesn't annoy me," she asserts. "It's interesting. Janay told me the reason I was assigned to the Enterprise was that I had a knack for analysis. Mr. Spock became aware of it, and he brings me into certain conflicts to help him figure out – no, more like to confirm to him the best way to proceed."

Stanley wasn't born yesterday. "He 'became aware' of your gift? And just like that assigns you to the flagship of Starfleet. The chief science officer of the Enterprise recruits an anonymous geologist barely out of the Academy to consult with him on intra-departmental conflicts? How exactly did this happen? 'Janay told you.' How would she know?"

Anon's easy posture vanishes. She straightens up, hunches her shoulders, her eyes and mouth tighten again. Stanley sighs. He knows where this is going, knew all along where it had to go, didn't want to go there. He waits her out this time.

"Janay told me that she had told Mr. Spock about the integrated competitions. When he was looking for a lab mate for her, after she was promoted to team leader. She wanted me to be assigned to the Enterprise with her. She got her way. Captain Kirk didn't want me. But Mr. Spock did, after she told him."

"Ensign." Stanley's voice is gentle, and she looks at him with her constricted body. "Ensign Anon, what did Lieutenant Andersen tell Commander Spock about the science competitions?"

Anon squirms such that Stanley is sure she is embarrassed, but her face remains tense, discomfited. "Janay told him that my team had won every competition. Being Janay, she did the research and also told him that had never happened before. Being Mr. Spock, he confirmed her research, and even though I wasn't inquisitive or creative or anything, he wanted me anyway. I never had any ideas myself for solving the problems presented in the competitions, but I knew which ideas were the best ones. That's all. I can't believe I was the first cadet never to be on a losing team. It's only eight teams. How hard could it be?"

Stanley stares at her. "I never heard of it, and I was a professor in the science department for over thirty years. During my time there, Spock was the most successful person on the competitive teams we'd ever seen, and he was on the winning team just six times. The problems posed are too complicated to be on the winning team every time. Different skill sets are emphasized, different approaches are required. What could a single person bring to all eight teams? Truly, Ensign, that is astonishing. No wonder Spock was intrigued. But what exactly was your contribution? What does Spock want from you?"

Anon takes her time responding. "Spock's logic is impeccable. He starts with A, moves to B, then to C, and so forth. It's linear and works almost all of the time. But sometimes there's a juncture that cannot be determinative. My logic is more circular. I start on several promising points on the circumference and gradually tighten up and work to the center point."

"Nobody uses circular logic. You can never reach a conclusion." Stanley is surprised to find himself debating her.

Anon counters, "Then think of it like drawing in a fishing net or weaving a spider web. That's how it feels to me. Sometimes people accuse me of jumping to conclusions. But I can always demarcate my process. Please can we not talk about this?"

Stanley drums his fingers on the arms of his chair in frustration. He finally gets her to talk about herself, and she shuts it down. "For now. Let's talk about your 81 research projects on the new mineral. I did a thorough review of eight of your completed studies, then a cursory look at the remaining 28 complete and 45 ongoing. Per your description of your process, I read them in chronological order."

Stanley pauses, and glances at Anon. He is gratified to see she is no longer tense, but calm and focused. She clearly prefers to talk about work. He'll bear that in mind. "Your first four were conventional starting explorations of an unknown mineral, and interspersed among the 81 were another six standard tests. But I expected to see them immediately following the first four. Instead, your studies went very far afield from the usual test protocol, although I admit your direction was quite clear. How did you decide when and what studies to pursue?"

Anon sang, "One thing leads to another," then spoke. "I followed the data is all. The first interesting result on standard protocol test four generated a bunch of questions, which I pursued as far as it seemed to go, then I went back to protocol test five, and the same thing happened. It's a real interesting mineral."

"That it is, Ensign." Stanley sees her face is now animated, eyes shining, body leaning forward. He hates to spoil her mood, but the next question needs to be asked. "Getting back to what I asked you in the gym, don't you ever slow down? You began 81 quality projects, completing 36, in just a few weeks. Starfleet, as you well know, wants balanced crew, not work-obsessives. Shifts are plenty long, yes, but even so, adding meals, PT, and sleep is supposed to leave you plenty of free time. Are you back to being anti-social? Please be honest about this. Have you pursued any non-work activities since …?"

As he suspected it would, Anon's face has fallen, and she crumbles in her seat. She says nothing, but stares at the floor. Stanley coaxes, "Please answer the question, Ensign."

"Which one, sir? I counted four of them." Anon's tone is defiant, belied by her body language. Stanley waits her out again, until she shakes her head and looks at him directly. "I understand you. Since Janay died, my life has changed. She always looked out for me and drew me into her circle. Now I've stopped doing Sing & Sculpt with her, Language in Music with Uhura, Movie Night with that whole club, and Cacophony, mostly. Why would I not?"

Stanley restrains himself from interrupting but feels himself grimacing involuntarily. What the hell is she talking about? All he picked up on was Movie Night. Later, boy, this is where she is now.

Anon continues, "I only sleep two hours a night, so by getting rid of all the activities that remind me of Janay, yes, I work eighteen hours a day in the lab most days. But some days I do meet up with other people. I love music, and I love sex."

If Stanley hadn't finished his water he would have spit it halfway across the mess. "Are you propositioning me, Ensign!"

Anon's head jerks back. She looks as surprised as he feels. "Certainly not. Why would you think that?"

"I can't imagine." Stanley has come out of retirement, not back from the dead, and was momentarily flattered. Not for long.

Anon frowns. "I make music with my friends and have sex with my lover. We're all on different schedules so I can't do either as much as I'd like, but I'm not going back to being a first-year, no. I love them, but if Janay hadn't pulled me and pushed me and been my first friend, I would've flunked out and never met the other people I love." She has become passionate, and pain has returned to her aspect. "She saved my life. Then she died. How would you feel? What would you do?"

And once again she has turned the tables on him, asking the worst set of questions he has ever tried not to face. Stanley feels his face grow hot and his breath short. He has jumped back forty years.

"What I would do is finish my six-year starship commitment, and never go back to space. That's what I did do. How I felt, though, I still can't get my heart around." The pain on Anon's face mingles with bewilderment and concern, and Stanley finds himself unable to stop talking.

"I was a prodigy, Ensign. I entered the Academy at fifteen and completed the six-year program in four. I was assigned to the Lincoln, young and cocky and brilliant and reckless and stupid. I needled and challenged everyone in the department, and pushed everything to the limit. On my fourth away team mission, I took an unforgivable physical risk that led to the deaths of six people. The Academy never again allowed a student under the age of twenty to enter and mandated a minimum graduation age of twenty-six years. The chief science officer resigned his commission in the aftermath, but it was my fault. I quit space exploration as soon as I could, and never went back. Until today."

Stanley closes his eyes and sees the mutilated corpses of his teammates he can never forget. He despairs all over again, when he is filled by wave of compassion so strong he believes it is physical. His body sinks into its support, and his mind floats, cushioned. As suddenly as it came the feeling departs, and he realizes Anon is behind him, her arms around him, holding him upright. He struggles to recover himself, and she releases him as soon as he succeeds, slipping back around the table to her seat. Still breathing heavily, he comes to realize that conversations nearby have continued, crew members arrive and depart the mess; everything is normal except him.

Except him and Anon. He stares at her. "What are you?"

She answers readily, "I told you. I don't know. Mr. Spock is trying to find out."

"That's not what I meant. What did you do? How did you …?"

"You were hurting. I tried to help. Did it?" Stanley examines himself. For all the briefings and all the therapeutic sessions, for all his counselors and for all his wives, the few seconds of embrace by Anon's physical – for that is what he is sure it was – her tangible sympathy has mended pieces of his broken soul. His head aches; it was definitely physical, but he feels almost intact.

"Yes," he admits. "It did help. But tell me, what did you do?"

Anon shrugs. Cool and distant again. "Don't want to talk about it. I shouldn't have done it, but I'm glad it helped a little. Sorry to interfere. I reacted to how much pain you were emanating."

Stanley nods his head, once, then twice. "It was your pain, too. You think it was your fault Janay died."

Anon's eyes clouds over again, and her voice is strangled as she cries out, "It was my fault. I disobeyed her order to come out of the mine before removing my backpack to get my tools. I slipped and fell as I took off my gear. She always took care of me, and she didn't believe me when I said I was okay. Why would she? I needed her for everything. Not this time but she came to rescue me anyway, to take care of me again, and she died. It was my fault. I'm not such a mess as I was, Leonard fixed me, but it doesn't change that Janay, my first friend, my best friend, my sister, died because of me. I can't …" Her voice has lowered to a whisper and now disappears altogether.

Stanley's chest has constricted as Anon's memories wash over him. Scientists are supposed to be objective; geologists in particular are supposed to be more attached to things, to rocks, than to living beings. It's all bull. He could no more move on from the deaths of his friends than he could replace his amputated fingertip, which he rubs unconsciously.

Why did he say yes to Spock to return to space, to join the mission, to lead a lab, to try to step into a role that was vacated by death? He knows, subjectively, that it was by way of atonement. Spock had told him, though he knew before being told, that the underling Anon had not yet fully incorporated the loss of her lab leader.

He was theoretically the ideal person to help in that, but theory seldom maps to reality, and now here he is. He agreed to this, and it was his brilliantly stupid idea that they get acquainted. She helped him, but he has wounded her further. Worse, he realizes, she has talked, not just about her feelings, but about the classified away team incident itself.

"Anon." She aims her face at him, but her eyes are still clouded. What does she see? "Anon, stop. You know we can't talk about this. Your away-team briefing was classified."

"Don't I know it. Classified a complete bollocks failure. Can we go back to lab now, please? Please!"

"Ensign, no. It's political, not personal. Classified. Not to be revealed outside the participants."

Anon's eyes clear abruptly. "Oh! I'm an idiot! I thought … Dammit! Now I have to turn myself into Security."

Stanley frowns. "Don't overreact, Ensign. Spock brought me up to speed with almost this much information. Let me tell him what you shared with me, and find out whether it is a problme. You're so wrapped up in your sorrows, your judgment is compromised."

Anon stands up and turns her back, shoulders hunched, takes several steps toward the door. Stanley speaks firmly, "Ensign, we are still not finished," The young geologist slows her pace, but doesn't immediately return. When she finally does, Anon sits primly, her composure apparently restored.

"Ensign," Stanley begins, "we are going to have a complicated relationship. So be it. I'm confident we can learn to work together. But my judgment as your lab leader is that you need to resume Movie Night at the very least. I will be happy, no, honored to be the Emcee. I don't have Andersen's wit, but you can coach me. Now," – for Anon's face is screwed into a mosaic of contrasting emotions – "I knowit won't be the same, but, Anon, it can't be the same. Your life will never be the same, but you can build strength out of your loss, and I and your friends and admirers can help."

Anon's face is no longer a mosaic. She has settled on calm. No, not calm. Grim. Oh, crap.

"If you order me to resume Movie Night, I will. You're my superior. And I promise I'll try my best. But, one change. I demand that It has to be open to everyone now, not by invitation only. You may be right that Movie Night would help the crew feel normal. But it won't help me. My music friends and my lover help. Okay? Can we go back to lab now, or am I still banished, banished, banished?"

Stanley sighs. He has failed. The first task he set himself as lab leader, a role he never assumed before in his long career in Starfleet, is a failure.

"Sure, Anon, let's go back to lab. I'd appreciate your walking me through your process. It will be fascinating, I'm sure. And you should know I have already proposed a return to Reynos 3 for untainted samples. I completely agree with your assessment in that regard."

They leave the mess together, their faces remote, their thoughts unspoken.

By the time Anon's shift has finally ended, having been extended by the break for PT, Stanley is feeling more optimistic. Anon had been all over the place, as he has learned is her nature, but had managed to be cordial, helpful, clear-headed, and occasionally even funny. He wouldn't say she was eloquent, but their dialog in the lab was truly a dialog; he didn't have to do all the work of conversation.

Picturing what she must have been like as a first-year, he has no doubt she was on the verge of dismissal. He is equally sure that Janay Andersen saved her butt. If he had hung in there just one more year, he would have had a professorial challenge unlike any he'd ever had. He experiences a pang of regret that he didn't do just that. Ah well, the challenge is here and now instead. He involuntarily rubs his hands together in anticipation.

Anon's love of geology, the pleasure she takes in it is palpable and contagious. Whatever she claimed about the value to her of her music and her unidentified lover, clearly working in the lab also helps to subsume her sorrow. A rock head, just like him, maybe even more so.

Her explanations of her thinking process did indeed turn out to be fascinating. He determines to buttonhole Spock at the officers' reception to suggest that there may be a way to incorporate her logic web approach into the training program. Granted, he's on the Enterprise, not in the Academy, but teaching is never far from his mind, probably never will be. Professor for Life, that's him.

They spoke no more of Andersen, nor of Movie Night, but he'll seek out some of his old students for a better understanding of how it worked. He can order Anon to resume the event. He can bluster his way as Emcee. But he doesn't want to hurt her further nor to embarrass himself, so he at least has to get a clue.

He surprises himself with a yawn. If he expects to make it through the reception, much less remember the names of all the officers, he'd better get in a nap. The reunion, a godawful introduction to his lab mate, a full-day's immersion in the Geo Lab, and soon a reception – he's way too old for this, and it's exactly what he needs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Section 1: Amazing Grace**

 **Chapter 2: Moving Right Along**

McCoy steps into his quarters and arches his back in a slow stretch while the door whooshes shut. The blinking message light catches his eye, and he groans.

He had been pleased to escape the officers' reception for Stanley on the early side – an introduction, a few standard pleasantries, a drink – two drinks, actually – and then gone. He hates mandatory fun. Anyway, Stanley seemed most eager to talk to Spock, which was fine with him.

Yanking off his dress uniform and falling into bed – that's his idea of a good time right about now. So, the nagging message light had better not mean he has to slog over to Sickbay now.

He starts to undo the detested high collar and commands, "Computer. Play message."

The bland voice of the computer intones, "Working. Message received today at 1715 hours."

Then a beloved voice: "Leonard, I'm sorry to bother you."

McCoy smiles, pulls off his jacket, and relaxes onto his berth, kicks off his shoes. "Hello, Darlin'."

Anon's voice continues. "If it's not too much trouble I was hoping that you could come to my quarters and keep me company for a little while. I know you had the reception and all, so if you're too tired it's really okay. I just … I want … well, I could use your company. Sorry."

McCoy's smile deserts him. He isn't surprised, particularly. Anon had been wildly anxious about the replacement of her lab leader – he is sure, despite her vows to him that she would take care of herself, that she ate nothing yesterday – but he didn't get an impression from Stanley at the reception that their introduction had gone badly. Of course, he hardly spoke to the new lab leader, so how would he know? If he's being honest with himself, he didn't want to know, so he didn't even ask.

McCoy does know that although Anon adores him, their relationship is overwhelmingly on his terms: when he has free time; what he wants to talk about, where he thinks they should meet. He also knows that the time she spends making music with her engineer friends, especially the flautist – what's her name … Simbollah – allows her to express herself in a way she never can manage in conversation.

He is drawn back to the months before he and Anon became intimate. He loved watching her play during Movie Night and the occasional concert/dance party. She was passionate playing her music, and he was envious of her bandmates who could share that with her. But now he can engage her, just as passionately, when they make love. He knows this connection belongs only to the two of them.

And he also knows he has never been a particularly good boyfriend, nor was he a notably supportive husband. Hence his singular availability when Anon entered his life. But he is determined to do better, to live up to what she thinks he is. If she wants him to come to her, he will. She is the opposite of clingy, seldom asking anything of him.

"Computer. Call Soli."

As he pulls his shoes back on, he awaits a response, but it's only the computer voice. "No answer. Do you wish to leave a message?"

"No. Cancel call." Anon most likely is meditating. He'll let himself in if necessary. He will be there for her. Even though he hasn't the slightest idea what kind of company she needs when they can't have the privacy of the shuttle bay. No matter. She'll tell him soon enough, and he will be the good boyfriend he wants her to believe he is. Bah. His thoughts are chasing their own tails. Damn, he's tired.

McCoy arrives at the door to Anon's quarters and hesitates. He presses the chime first, then a second time. Not receiving a response, he uses the thumb ID pad, and the door opens. He sees Anon while he is still in the corridor, hesitates again, then enters and goes to her.

She is in a fetal position on the floor in a corner of the room – meditating as he had suspected. She doesn't need him for this. Maybe she decided to meditate instead and didn't think to cancel her request that he come.

On the other hand, maybe it's worse than he thought.

He crouches next to her, unsure of whether to speak to her, touch her, or just wait. His tired legs ache after just a few minutes, so waiting is out. He murmurs, "Soli, it's me." She remains curled up. At last he touches her shoulder, and she flails about, so that he yanks his hand back as though she had snapped at him. But of course, she hadn't.

Instead, Anon reaches for his hand and looks up at him, if looking is not the same as seeing, that is. Her third eyelid is engaged. "I'm so glad you came. Thank you, my love."

She pulls herself into his lap. For a moment he remains squatting, a wobbling Weeble, then he tips backwards, landing awkwardly on his rump, his legs flying apart as he attempts to hang onto Anon. His heels and an elbow hit the ground simultaneously, and he grunts in pain. Anon mumbles, "Oops, sorry. Are you okay?" but she continues to try to wrap herself around him and fold her knees in.

"Of course, I'm okay," McCoy grouses. "What in tarnation? If you're going all fetal, what do you need me for? And can we get off the floor?"

Anon's nictitating membranes recede, and she releases him. She still doesn't seem all there, and McCoy waits for her to recover. Her intense meditation often disorients her, not that it keeps her from curling into it whenever she feels like it.

McCoy folds his legs under himself and pushes to a stand. He offers his hand to Anon, but she stays on the floor, crossing her legs, breathing deeply, rocking slightly.

She answers his question, after a fashion, "I need to meditate, and I need you with me. Both. A lot. I was hoping for both. Cuddles and fetal, both. I was … Today … It's just …

I'm sorry, Leonard. I'm weirding you out, aren't I?"

"No, no! Not at all! Yes. What the hell, Soli." McCoy is just as weary as he was when he entered his quarters, but in addition his coccyx throbs from his hard landing, and his right elbow is tingling from whacking his funny bone.

Anon rocks back on her heels and stands. "I'm sorry I bothered you. I was selfish. You should go get some sleep. You look exhausted." She hangs her head and prods him toward the door. McCoy almost exits the room before he braces himself and reverses direction.

"Don't always be assuming I'm leaving you, Darlin'. You can't get rid of me that easily." Anon quits her sheepdog efforts, and starts to protest, but he extends a forefinger close to her lips, and she in turn throws her arms about his waist and presses herself against him.

"All I ask of you," McCoy grumbled, "and I've asked you over and over, is to tell me what you have in mind before you jump over the cliff and pull me with you."

Anon resumes shrinking into her fetal position, but McCoy slips his hands under her elbows to support her, and walks her, clumsily, to her berth. She doesn't protest but does look longingly at her favorite corner.

McCoy sits on the edge of the berth, then scoots backward, dragging Anon with him until she is seated next to him. "What do you need of me, Soli? I'll do anything you want, anything you need, you know that. But, really dear heart, on the floor?"

"I want … I need … Oh, Leonard, you know I always do my meditation on the floor, but I want to put my arms around you, not around my knees. If you don't think you can stand it, I won't mind. You can go back to your quarters. It's okay."

"Or, my dear, I could be comfy on your bed while you do your thing with your arms around me. It would be new and different for the both of us. Where's your sense of adventure?" McCoy, trying not to seem as though he's mocking her, gazes at her eyes. Enchanting as usual. What's the harm in giving in on this, he asks himself. But she concedes.

"I'll try. I'll do it." And in rapid succession Anon pulls her knees to her chest, wraps her arms around McCoy, tucks her head down, and mentally vanishes.

McCoy appraises his position. He got what he asked for, yes. They're on the berth, but at least a half meter from a wall he could lean against. He attempts to squirm to a comfortable place, but Anon is too firmly attached for large motor movements. He gives up, and instead puts one arm around her back, the other under her drawn-up thighs. At least he has stabilized their position. He wishes for a short meditation session, but as time passes his wish is unfulfilled; his head droops, and he dozes off. 

"Hey."

McCoy awakens slowly. Anon's arms are outstretched, and her legs extend beyond the edge of the berth. Suddenly her limbs sag, her back straightens, and she looks at him. Damn. Whatever it was is still unresolved, he can see it in her haunted eyes. He attempts to stretch, but the twinge of pain forces him back to a slouch. Which position, he can see from the clock, he has been in for the last hour and a quarter. Pain. The nap didn't even begin to alleviate his exhaustion. Oh, and did he mention pain?

Anon's physical state seems perfectly fine. Despite her dark expression, she speaks cheerfully. "Leonard, thanks for being there. I'm done. You probably want to go to your quarters and get some real sleep, so bye. I love you. Thanks again. You're the best."

"You're the worst," grumbles McCoy, following it up with a chuckle when he sees her confusion. "You're wrong. I've been bent like a pretzel for over an hour, for your benefit, and I'm not going back to my quarters because of a few words of flattery."

Anon starts to protest, but McCoy continues, "You're still bothered by something. I can see it. Your new lab leader arrived today. There's a connection, and I'm not going anywhere until you talk about it."

Anon hurls herself off the berth and strides to her curl-up-and-go-away corner. McCoy slides down and pursues her. With his longer legs they reach the corner simultaneously, and McCoy enfolds her to hold her upright, not willing to take any chances that she will disappear again.

"Soli, sometimes talking works better than meditation. What happened today that made you want to leave me and hang onto me, both at the same time?"

McCoy is always gratified on the rare occasions when he says just the right thing. This is one of those times. Anon swivels in his arms and returns the embrace. He ignores the twinge in his back and remains motionless until she looks up at him – clear-eyed, that's good – ready to talk.

"Leonard, I met Commander Stanley. You're right, I had a hard time. I was okay when we were working in the lab, I always do better when I'm working, but he said some stuff when we were having lunch, well, I was having lunch, in the mess, and after my shift was over I went and looked it up and I don't know."

Definitely upset when she is stammering and disconnected. McCoy doesn't dare touch her skin; she will transmit like a sonofabitch. He waits for her to become more coherent. She always does, eventually, and this time is no exception, though everything is relative.

"Sir Iron Man ( _what the hell,_ McCoy thinks) really, really wanted to make me feel okay. Maybe Mr. Spock asked him to, which is weird because I thought Mr. Spock didn't care about anybody's emotions, but anyway. Mr. Professor, Commander Stanley kind of got me going, like he knew that I know it's my fault Janay died, which it was but I try not to talk about it but I did anyway, and he told me that on his fourth away team mission he was responsible for six deaths and I thought he was just doing that Terran thing Janay told me about of trying to make somebody feel better by making up an even worse story, so I didn't know what to think and I didn't quite believe him but after shift I looked it up."

Unexpectedly, McCoy is neurally receiving the video record Anon had watched of the horrifying mission. He sees an impossibly young Stanley tossing down to another member of the away team a small object – oh god, it's an explosive – that isn't caught but lands and tears up the research site and the limbs and the bodies of most, no all of the away team. Hands and legs strew the field of view, skulls are smashed against trees and boulders. The chief science officer's foot is facing the wrong direction, and Stanley, bleeding profusely from a shrapnel wound, collapses above the carnage, pulls his knees in like Anon in her fetal state, covers his face with his hands and rocks incessantly back and forth, his mouth open, shrieking. Thank god the force of the explosion blew out the audio.

The med team materializes; triage compels them to tend to the one field scientist and the chief science officer who are likely to survive, then they approach Stanley, who fights them off in hysterics but eventually is subdued by a hypo-spray so his wounds can be treated.

The vision ends. McCoy is nauseated, and he is weeping. He has never seen this level of self-inflicted casualties, "friendly fire" they used to call it. Damn, Stanley was just a kid.

He feels the weight of Anon, and realizes her legs are failing her. He allows both of them to sink to the floor, embracing each other.

 _The chief science officer resigned his commission._ Anon is communicating to him while McCoy tries to tear his mind away from what he has seen. _Commander Stanley finished his required tour of duty, applied to teach geology in the Academy, and never went on a starship again. Until today when here he is, trying to make me feel better because his mistake caused six deaths instead of one._

Knowing the answer in advance, McCoy nevertheless asks, _and did it help?_

 _No. Not a bit. We were both inexperienced, overconfident rookies. He killed his friends. I killed my sister._ Anon disconnects from his head. "Neither of us will ever feel better about it."

They sit in silence, until Anon blanks out into what passes for sleep. McCoy lifts her onto her berth, strips off her shoes, socks, and uniform, drapes them over a chairback, leaves her in her undies bur covers her with her blanket, and retires to his quarters for his own troubled slumber.

Anon awakens and jerks into a sitting position, throwing her legs over the side of her berth. She surveys her quarters, glances down at her partially disrobed self, smiles. Janay had instructed McCoy in the last-call-of-the-night protocol when Solitaire Anon plunges into her nightly coma. If you're talking with her but in a different room, leave a message reminding her to change her clothes in the morning. If you're in the same room, just take her clothes off so she'll put on a clean set. She knows and goes with the program; she has no sense of personal modesty and is never offended or embarrassed.

She squints at the clock: 0300 hours. Two hours "sleep." Normal. She snatches yesterday's uniform from the chairback, stuffs it into the AC, presses Clean. She yanks open the drawer and pulls out a fresh uniform, steps into it, dons her shoes, reties her hair in her usual ponytail, darts into the corridor.

From her quarters to the mess hall. Typically, almost empty at this hour. At her usual replicator, she punches the series of keys that produce her usual breakfast, stuffs it into her usual takeout box, slips inconspicuously from the mess hall back into the corridor, and hurries to the door of the Geo/Hydro Lab, her personal eatery since Andersen died. She palms the keypad, steps forward confidently, performs a full faceplant into the unyielding door.

As Anon rubs her bumped nose, she reads the message board that had lit up in lieu of the door opening. "Good morning, Ensign. You are not to report to work at the lab until 0700 hours. A normal start time in other words. Go do something else at whatever ungodly hour you're showing up. Iron Man."

Anon turns her back to the door, slides down the wall into a cross-legged position, devours her breakfast. She crushes the box and utensils into a wad, shoves it into the recycling aperture. She scurries down the corridor, enters the lift, and commands, "Rookie Quarters." The doors close, and the elevator whooshes her away.

At 0655 hours Anon is standing at the door of the lab once more. At 0659 hours Stanley exits the lift and strides down the hall to join her. He says, "You can go in now. The door will respond." She gives him the side eye, palms the keypad, and sure enough, the door slides open obediently. They enter, first Anon, then Stanley. She goes straight to her work area, pulls open the drawer and extracts her tools.

"Good morning, Ensign. It was a long day yesterday. Did you sleep well?"

"As usual." Anon begins to line up her tools before her, by type then by size.

"So did I. Thanks for asking."

Anon pauses, glances at Stanley, then resumes her sorting process, but more slowly. "Huh. I didn't ask. Why did you say I did?"

Stanley waits to reply, waits some more, until Anon, with a hammer in one hand and a scriber in the other, finally stops what she's doing and makes eye contact with him. Unlike the previous day, she holds his gaze, he notes; that is not much of an improvement, but he'll take what he can get.

"Rock Head, I don't want to have to push and prod and manipulate you into having a working relationship with me. Mind you, I'm not saying a good working relationship, a polite one will do."

Anon carefully places the tools in their proper places before responding. "Yes sir. Okay, Iron Man. I apologize for not asking how you slept. I'll try to remember in the future. If there are other inquiries I should make, just let me know. Maybe you could give me a list of them? I like to memorize lists." After a beat, Anon smiles and adds, "I'm afraid I'm out of practice in the niceties, I guess. Oh, here's one: did you enjoy your breakfast?"

Stanley shakes his head, and finds himself smiling back, then laughing. "Yes, Rock Head, I did enjoy my breakfast. It was just close enough to real food to conjure up good memories of flavor and texture."

For a moment Anon's face falls, then she forces the smile to return. "You sound like Janay. She preferred meals on Terra, at home. When we were at the new crew reception, where everything was fresh-made, she just cruised and grazed. She tried a little of everything and ate a lot of some things." The smile is gone; her gaze is far away.

Not again, Stanley thinks. Does every damn thing remind her of her friend? Too bad. He will force a normalish conversation on an ordinary topic. Ahead Warp 6.

"What about you, Rock Head?" Stanley presses. "How was your breakfast? What do you think about replicated food?"

Anon is drawn back into lab by Stanley's question, and her eyes widen. "I love to eat. Everything."

Stanley recalls her relish with yesterday's lunch, and nods. "I must confess I was fascinated watching you eat. I've never seen anybody enjoy their food more. You don't mind that it's all replicated?"

"No, Iron Man. It's … what I grew up with. Like you said, taste and feel. Also color and shape."

Anon bends over and rummages in a drawer for samples and notes; she presses the on button of her console. Stanley ignores her rudeness and continues "Didn't you graze at the new crew reception yourself? You must have been able to tell the difference."

Anon shrugs. "Too nervous to eat. Like yesterday before you arrived. During Academy breaks, Janay invited me to her home. So, yah, fine food, really, really fine ... Iron Man!"

Stanley jumps, looking around for danger. Nothing has happened, and Anon is still standing in front of her work area. He snaps at her, "Don't have to yell. What's the matter?"

Anon extends her hands towards him; when he stays motionless, she drops them. "I can't tell you how sorry I am about the loss of your crew and lab mates. I … I um, looked it up after shift yesterday. It was awful. I'm so sorry."

Stanley, stunned, stares at her and finally extends his hands. She quickly grasps them but simultaneously loses eye contact, murmuring, "It must have been difficult to talk about it."

"Yes, it was. It always has been, always will be." Stanley tries to regain his disrupted equilibrium, taking a deep breath. "Thank you for your kind words."

Anon pulls her hands away and looks up at Stanley again. "Can we get started? Lots to do today, Iron Man." Anon's smile is forced. "Let's talk rocks and minerals, okay?"

Stanley has just been dismissed by his own subordinate. Nonetheless, his face breaks into a genuine smile. Her late and lame attempt at congeniality counts for something; maybe yesterday wasn't the failure he had lambasted himself for. This partnership could end up being fine. So, talking rocks and minerals it is.

"Hey yay, Anon!" Simbollah snaps open her flute case and begins assembling her instrument. "I thought I was imagining your message to get together, but here you are." She frowns in mock concern. "At least, you look like Anon. Can I pinch you to make sure you're not a hallucination?"

"Here I am, baby. Signed, sealed and delivered," Anon sings. She unrolls her keyboard and strokes it affectionately. "It's me, all right. Under orders."

"What does that mean?"

Simbollah pauses in her ritual of lining up the sections and polishing off fingerprints. "I know you have a new lab leader. What's his name? I forget. Orders to make music? I mean, I love making music with you, but an order to do something? During your downtime? Seriously? That sounds illegal. He's only a lab leader." Simbollah tends to be protective of Anon, even when her friend has been remote, as has happened more and more lately.

"Afraid not. He's a retired Academy professor, high ranking, Emeritus. He did Mr. Spock a favor by agreeing to be my lab leader. And he's a commander, so yah, he can order me to do pretty much anything."

Anon sighs, plays a few minor chords and runs, ends with a major chord and a smile at Simbollah. "Actually, he ordered me to restart Cacophony. I'm starting with just you because, well, you. My friend."

Anon reaches over, pats Simbollah's arm awkwardly, then pulls back. "But we'll add Groome, Barilo, and Ioioma, then the rest of the crew. He also said to start up Movie Night again, wants to pick up where we left off. So that means 'Bill & Hillary' and the whole band playing backup."

Simbollah has laid her flute in her lap and reaches over to grasp Anon's gloved hands, an easy and natural act of affection. "Are you okay, really? To go back to the way things were? Are you ready?"

"It's okay." Anon could patent her shrug of manufactured indifference. "It's his prerogative. So, it kind of has to be okay, right? I did insist that Movie Night be open to all. I never liked Janay's invitation only business. He agreed to that. So, it's okay."

Anon's bows her head. Simbollah retains her grasp for a few moments, then pulls her hands back and folds them across her flute. She knows better than to make skin-to-skin contact. She waits until Anon finally lifts her chin; she studies the dark violet eyes.

"You always say everything's okay," Simbollah gently chides her. "You are good at convincing yourself that it's even true."

"It is true," Anon protests.

"But it isn't. None of this is okay. I know how much Janay meant to you. I loved Janay, too. You can't tell me that she would've wanted you to stop doing everything, which you have, even playing music with me. Even your music, Anon. She would've been pissed off. You know it's true."

Anon's eyes narrow, and she takes shallow, rapid breaths. Simbollah rushes on. "My whole life changed when Janay, coolest person ever, invited me to Movie Night. Geeky me got to be a part of something actually kind of big and exciting, and it was because I was such a geek. And with my geeky engineering buds I met you, and we started the band, and we became friends. Good friends."

Simbollah's eyes start to tear up; she sees Anon's third eyelids shielding her irises. "I love you, Anon. Seize your life back, please. Be a friend, do your music, introduce everybody onboard to your 2Ds. You know Janay would want you to. For your sake, not because of Stanley's orders. Don't you see?"

Anon inhales deeply, but her eyes remain clouded. "I can't see anything right now, can't you tell?"

Simbollah's laugh spills her tears down her cheeks, two hot, flowing streams. "Doofus!"

Anon smiles, and her nictitating membranes recede. "That's more like it. I love you, too. You didn't just change my life, you saved my life. So, let's make the spirit of Janay happy and play us some show tunes." She and Simbollah bring up their music on their respective consoles, put their fingers at the ready, and begin.


	4. Chapter 4

**Section 1: Amazing Grace**

 **Chapter 3: Who Are You?**

 _Hey, Leonard_. Anon has reached out to McCoy's mind, and is welcomed in.

 _Hi, Darlin'_. He forces a smile and instantly feels ridiculous. Every time he tries to keep a concern from her, he acts like she is in the room and can read his face. Nevertheless, the psychological impact of a smile does its job to elevate his state of mind.

 _I'm done with everything for the day, showered after my workout, ate dinner with my music friends for a change. They were happy – does that make you happy? And_ …

 _Yes, it does, Soli. I'm always glad to hear you're spending time with friends. You need it_. McCoy continues to project positive feedback. So far, so good. He leans on the edge of his desk, mindfully relaxed.

 _It's our night, you know. Ready to meet up_? He can picture her smile, a little twitchy, but lighting up her eyes; she is randy, and that has its effect on him. Good, good. He's not overly anxious after all.

 _Of course, I'm ready. I'm beyond ready already. But we need to have a conversation. I've put it off as long as could, which is much longer than I should. Can you come to my Sickbay office? I have something to show you_.

He opens himself to her apprehension, but there is none he can detect. His efforts to think happy thoughts, as the song goes, were successful. She is as eager to see him as before. Oh, but, a little less randy. Hmm. Maybe that's not so good.

Anon's response is simple and calm. _Sure, my love. I'll be there as fast as the lift can take me._

She remains in McCoy's head as she makes her way to Sickbay, so he hears her soft voice giving the lift instructions for her destination, and she knows he is pulling the fifth of Jameson's out of his desk drawer and pouring himself a couple of fingers. Still he feels serenity from her, only requesting an iced seltzer for her arrival. That he can do.

Anon enters the office, and heads directly to him, curling her arms up to his shoulders while he wraps her torso in his own arms. They simultaneously inhale each other's scent, a ritual McCoy scarcely realizes he has adapted from her, so natural has it become. After they pull apart, he hands over the seltzer and gestures to the guest chair. She agreeably sits, and he settles once again on the edge of his desk, now swirling the whiskey in the tumbler, now taking a sip.

Anon pulls out of his head and speaks first. "What do we need to discuss?"

Typical. No dancing around. And, oh god, now that he needs to he cannot bring a smile to his face to save his life. She is chugging the seltzer, but looking over her glass, she reads him correctly, sets down the glass, and worries, "What's wrong?"

"You know Spock has been looking for your home planet," McCoy begins.

Anon interrupts him. Mercifully, perhaps – it may help him know where she stands. "Of course. I remember. And do you remember that I said I would help however I can, but nobody's asked me to do anything. Is that what this is about? So, can we talk about what he needs me to do?"

McCoy slams back his whiskey for courage and begins.

"This entire avenue of investigation is classified, as you know."

Anon interrupts him again, not so mercifully this time. "Yah, I know. But you don't know that I didn't really know until Commander Stanley told me. I thought …"

"Commander Stanley doesn't know anything about this. It's classified." McCoy, as so often happens in high-stress conversations with Anon, is baffled by her response.

"I know. I got the message from Uhura. But I'm just the lowest of the lowliest ensigns on this crew. It didn't dawn on me that it meant … I thought that the briefing had led to the Reynos 3 mission being classified a failure. I didn't even open the message. I was so ashamed. But Commander Stanley, while he was prepping for being my lab leader, he asked about Janay but couldn't, because it was classified. He told me to stop when I said something about the mission, because it was classified. And then I realized I was such a dolt, and I didn't know what to do except shut up, and now you finally mention it, but why …"

McCoy has set down his glass and stepped to her slumping body, hands covering her eyes. He slips his hands under her arms and lifts her up, holding her close. "Shh, shh, shh," he whispers.

The one subject they have studiously avoided over the last three months has been that mission. Now that he actually thinks about it, of course Anon misinterpreted the message subject line. Lord almighty, how the hell did she ever get admitted to the Academy? She is so unsuited for the military structure of Starfleet, and she still has not caught on after six years of the Academy and almost a year on board its flagship.

He is flooded by her emotions; now, she's in his head. He gradually lowers her, setting her on the arm of the chair. He moves to sit on the seat of the chair, pulls her onto his lap. They hold each other, quiet, for a long moment. McCoy casts about for a way to restart.

"Soli, here's the thing. The captain, Mr. Spock, and I have had several meetings on finding your home planet. Spock found Ktak."

Anon's head snaps up, though she continues to hold him tight. "He battled and defeated all levels of the Federation bureaucracy to have Ktak put officially off limits. No ship can go close enough for neural contact. You said only Keeper had left the planet for generations. And now, nobody will be able to be tricked into landing there. The rest of the galaxy is safe. Spock did it. How does that make you feel?"

Anon squeezes him hard. "I don't know. Ask me tomorrow when I've integrated it."

"Fair enough." McCoy squeezes back. Her reaction was satisfactory; he can go on. Still he waits, until she doesn't need the counterbalance of his body's support. When she begins to relax, he continues.

"Most of our meetings have consisted of Spock and me comparing notes and establishing goals. The captain, well, he just needs to be kept informed so he can run interference with the Federation, and so he can be confident Spock and I aren't butting heads."

Anon's voice is so soft he can hardly make out the words. "Please explain. Establishing goals? Running interference? Butting heads? What do you mean?"

McCoy shifts position and is gratified that Anon, although still firmly ensconced in his lap, straightens her posture and makes eye contact.

"Kirk pushed his clout to the limit in classifying the briefing, based on Spock's analysis. Soli, your scream upended the far reaches of the Federation. Spock and the captain took complete responsibility for investigating the incident, as they called it. They protected you. Dear heart, I think you would have been taken into custody and subjected to … Never mind about that. They protected you. Nobody beyond us knows it was you. But they have to come up with some kind of report eventually. Identifying Ktak bought them some time. Now we have to figure you out as best we can."

Anon nods. "I'm as ready as I can be. I've been ready. I'm beyond ready already." McCoy can't suppress a smile at having his words echoed in this very different context. Anon smiles back. "Tell me."

McCoy recounted the meetings' topics and conclusions, Anon wordless until he reaches the end, replies simply, "Okay."

McCoy tightens his embrace, and Anon arches her back to look at him more closely. "What else?"

McCoy breathes deeply, then plunges in. "Remember when you told me your story?"

Anon smiles. "Of course. I was there. Talking to you and Janay that night changed everything for me."

McCoy smiles back briefly. "For me, too. But I never told you what I did after you feel asleep on me." He waits for a response, doesn't get one, and continues, "I went to Sickbay and pulled up all those damned brain scans, all eight of them on the big screen at the same time. I studied them for, well, for evidence of the procedure you described, well, more what I saw when you were talking about it." She shudders and presses her head against his chest, no longer looking at him.

"I concentrated on the brain stem, since that was Keeper's entry point. I looked for scarring of some sort. Eventually I did see something odd, I worked with the med app to isolate it and identify it, and … long story short, what I found was that your brain is full of somebody else's tissue, someone else's DNA. It's too extensive to remove. I never told you, never entered it in your records, and I haven't told my med team or the project team. But I'm certain that Chenoweth will notice something when we do our experiments, so I wanted to tell you first." McCoy braces himself for Anon to digest his news, but she responds evenly.

"Huh. I know whose it was. One of the Ktak had died, let me see, sixteen days earlier. Keeper must have used his brain tissue. She had been all excited about something. That must have been it."

McCoy recoils at her matter-of-fact recital of the horror, but before he can react further she adds, "You told me that when doctors do gene editing they use viruses to get the new material throughout the targeted organ. Maybe that's what Keeper used."

Both are silent, until Anon mutters, "Bitch."

Finally, an appropriate response. Now McCoy relaxes. "Yes. And, as you once called her, a monster."

"Yah. This is going to take some integration, too. I'll have a complicated sleep period tonight." She hugs him. "Let's go to Shuttle Bay. I need to touch you even more. How I love you, Leonard."

"You're not angry I didn't tell you before?" McCoy is always a bit nervous at what will happen when they connect neurally skin-to-skin, and this time he wants to be prepared.

"No, no." Anon pushes back again so that they see each other's faces. "You were trying to spare my feelings. I can't blame you. It's pretty grotesque. I'm a chimera, aren't I?"

McCoy, startled, bursts out laughing. "What a thing to say! My own chimera, the woman I love! Let's go to Shuttle Bay, and I'll show you how much."

And they do, and he does.

Two weeks later, Kirk and Spock ae waiting in the specially outfitted shuttle when McCoy arrives. Almost simultaneously Kirk makes his greetings and his good-byes; he prefers to exit the shuttle before Anon's arrival. He isn't a part of the experimental protocol, and his presence seems always to make the ensign uncomfortable. Uncomfortable as in a stammering wreck. She will be going through enough crap today without his adding to it.

Spock's tricorder sits on top of his computer, next to a rather large scientific instrument whose purpose McCoy can only guess at, and Spock isn't saying. Spock will measure … whatever Spock has planned to measure.

McCoy hadn't attended to Spock's tricorder settings and hoped-for readings any more than necessary to move the project along. Yes, he wants to find Anon's home planet as much as the Chief Science Officer does, but his interest is personal, not scientific. He knows he has put Chenoweth under too much pressure, but he doesn't particularly care about that either.

The project requires her to take varied and detailed readings of what happens to Anon's brain and where it happens when she transmits and receives, and how long it happens before and after, and every damn fool thing he could think for her to measure, but he has also demanded that she record what happens to his brain and body for later analysis. To be free of the headaches when Anon is in his head is his greatest – and admittedly selfish – end goal for the project.

Shortly after Kirk's departure, Chenoweth arrives with Anon in tow. As they enter the shuttle, McCoy notices Chenoweth releasing Anon's gloved hand. Apparently, she had required additional support, perhaps coaxing as well. He is grateful to the attending physician's patience and calm encouragement. He knows well the many forms Anon's anxiety can take.

McCoy looks around the shuttle, assessing the moods of Spock (composed), Chenoweth (concerned), and Anon (controlled – barely). As for himself, he can't say. Edgy comes closest, although that doesn't fit the alliteration. Alliteration? Where the hell is his mind? Focus, McCoy, focus. Fortunately, Spock's composure is real, and the science officer initiates the proceedings.

"Greetings, Doctor Chenoweth, Ensign Anon. As you can see, the shuttle is outfitted as described in our final meeting yesterday. Seats for you, Ensign, and Doctor McCoy, at opposite ends of the shuttle. A bench, should it be needed to sit side-by-side. A set of four chairs in the middle for conferencing, again, should it be needed. If you are all ready, I shall command this shuttle, with the other shuttle on auto-pilot, to put one thousand kilometers between us and the Enterprise before beginning the experiments."

Murmurs of assent heard from McCoy and Chenoweth, Spock communicates with the Shuttle Bay operator. "Open Shuttle Bay doors."

McCoy reflexively glances at the screen to confirm the action. Chenoweth's eyes are on Anon; Anon's eyes flit from McCoy to her attending and back again. In due time, the shuttle reaches the designated distance from the Enterprise.

Without prompting Anon moves astern to the seat assigned to her; McCoy takes the seat in the bow. They are facing each other.

Chenoweth sits behind the computer and picks up the medical tricorder. McCoy has assembled the set of instruments for her to use, including a second tricorder integrated with the computer to be aimed at him during the experiments, and a smaller screen window to show his reactions should there be anything alarming, with the primary and larger screen displaying Anon's readings.

Chenoweth glances at him and shoots him a reassuring smile. He guesses she is picking up on his nervousness and feels obliged to treat him as she would any other patient. Well, why not? His mouth is dry; he cannot return her smile. His hands rub the armrests, forward and back, forward and back. He yanks his gaze away from Chenoweth and stares at Anon. She stares back, blankly.

Spock clears his throat. "Let us begin. Protocol One: Physical Separation. Near Distance. Subject A receives thoughts directed at her from Subject M."

Anon's face remains blank, no worse than that, morose. All the courage she had mustered, the eagerness to participate she had tried so hard to generate – all gone. She looks miserable.

Both Spock and Chenoweth are absorbed in their instrument readings, alternated with observing Anon. Neither of them is looking at him. McCoy has an attack of cleverness. He must direct thoughts at Anon; indeed he will, and so he does. _Darlin' when we're alone again, maybe in this very shuttle, I will turn all your sorrow into joy. I'll pull your shirt off, so carefully. But that very special contraption that covers your hands? I'll rip it to shreds. You'll lift my shirt_ … She is still expressionless, and McCoy ups the ante. He leans back in his seat, lacing his fingers behind his head so that his shirt rises to expose his belly. Anon's face is unchanged. _You'll lift my shirt and undo my_ …

"Something a little less obvious, Doctor, shall we?" Chenoweth's voice is a pin that pops his thought balloon.

McCoy jerks back to his original position so hard that he whacks his elbows on the armrests. Spock turns toward him, lifting an eyebrow. Anon looks at the floor. He feels his face flushing. "What the hell."

Chenoweth flashes a sly smile. "Her sinus rhythm greatly increased; her endopelvic fascia was, correction, is contracting spasmodically; her amygdala and hippocampus are lighting up the galaxy … Need I go on?" She doesn't spare so much as a peek at Spock, who by now has raised both eyebrows.

 _Bless your jargon-spouting little heart, Chenoweth_. Anon picks up McCoy's thought and starts giggling, though she seemingly remains fixated on the floor.

Spock is no fool; he is a generalist, not a medical specialist, but he gets the substance of Chenoweth's spiel. "Perhaps you should instead relay one of your fascinating discourses on the sundry digestive fluids among various species, Doctor. That would be a neutral and, as I say, a fascinating topic."

Now it's McCoy's turn to raise an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that Vulcans employed sarcasm, Spock."

Spock replied, "I merely suggest it as a perhaps less-engaging substitute topic."

For the first time since entering the shuttle, Anon speaks. "Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy's research is very engaging! He has told me all about it. Last time we talked, he had found eight discrete gastric acids and seventeen different linings after examining fifty-one species. Isn't that amazing? Have you found more since then, Doctor?"

McCoy's heart swells. Lord he loves her. He steals a glimpse of Spock's face and is gratified to find surprise registering. Hah! He gets back on track with confidence.

"Yes'm, Ensign, I have. Mr. Spock's recommendation is a good one. I'll regale you with my more recent findings, which have been recorded, and your reception can be compared to the records to verify how accurately the transmission was received." Damn, nice recovery, McCoy, he internally crows, although it takes all his will power not to rub his unhappy elbows. He settles in to update Anon about his research, and both Spock and Chenoweth resume their measurements.

"Let's take a break," McCoy proposes, several hours later. "I'm stiff as the proverbial board."

Chenoweth throws him a look of profound gratitude and stands, stretching her arms over her head, then bending double to grip the backs of her calves. She straightens and twists her torso clockwise and counter.

Anon slides off her chair and lands in a deep crouch. She pushes her knees apart and almost touches her forehead to the tops of her feet before standing and swinging her arms in all directions.

The two men are far more inhibited, scarcely acknowledging their physical discomfort. For McCoy, even a minor change of position improves his outlook, as feeling is restored to his feet and fingers.

The four protocols they have so far performed were repeated ad nauseum to develop sufficient data points for analysis. His calling for a pause now was strategic; what comes next is skin-to-skin, and even when he and Anon have the utmost privacy he can never be sure what will happen between them.

With no privacy by design, and with the tensions of the day mounting, he dreads what could develop. All for science, nada for him. And he immediately feels pangs of guilt; however difficult these protocols have been for him, they have been exponentially worse for Anon. She has fought to remain calm, but her distress has broken through repeatedly and infected his frame of mind.

"Protocol Five." Spock is ready, therefore so must they all be. "Skin-to-Skin Effects. Ensign, according to Dr. McCoy's proposal, you are to keep your gloves on for this phase, but nevertheless make skin contact with Dr. McCoy. Please be seated in the center chairs, facing each other. Whenever you wish to begin, you may proceed."

McCoy and Anon move from opposite ends of the shuttle to the center, almost knocking knees as they take their seats. Since her giggling fit, Anon hasn't been anything other than dead serious in her demeanor, emotional states aside. He can't help himself – he reaches out and pats her gloved hand, then places his hands in his lap. She follows his lead and does the same. Neither subject smiles.

"Protocol Five," Spock repeats, this time for the benefit of recording. "Subject A and Subject M neurally communicate via epidermal contact." Nice job, Spock, thinks McCoy. Much better way to present it to the federation science hawks than "skin-to-skin."

Without warning, Anon repeats her performance in the lounge many months ago. She seizes his face in her gloved hands and kisses him, hard, with skill she had not possessed that first time but with no less abandon.

All McCoy's defenses fall away; he is passionately engaged with her, aware of nothing else. There is no Spock, no Chenoweth; there are no tricorders, no computers. There is only Anon, his desire for her, her desire for him. Then, inevitably, Spock and Chenoweth enter the neural connection. They, too, are overcome by desire. McCoy can see vivid images of Uhura, hears Spock's calling to her. Vocally? Neurally? He cannot distinguish. Chenoweth is pulled into McCoy's passion for Anon; her feelings are more like Anon's for him but they are clearly for Anon, and the connection is wildly different.

As precipitously as it began, the encounter is over. Anon has released McCoy from the kiss. He sinks back into his chair, dazed, looking about him. Anon has turned her attention to Chenoweth, crooning calming phrases he cannot quite catch. Chenoweth had been pressed to Anon's back, caressing Anon's breasts, grinding into her hips. Now she pulls away abruptly, hand over her mouth, face bright red in embarrassment. Anon continues to reassure her.

Spock had dropped his tricorder and left his station. He is at the stern end of the shuttle, as close to the Enterprise as he can manage. Both his hands are spread in the Vulcan mind meld position, squashing their fingertips against the wall. He is moaning, "Nyota, Nyota." Moaning and sobbing until he suddenly recovers himself as well. He stands, visibly shaken, and staggers to the seat previously occupied by Anon. He collapses into it, wordless.

Chenoweth has turned away from Anon and is holding herself as though she would break apart if she did not. "I'm sorry, Ensign. I never would … I never have … I always maintain a professional relationship with my patients. I had heard about … that … what happens when … but I didn't realize …"

Anon, mirroring Spock, has escaped to the forward most point of the bow. She faces the little company but turns her head away. "I'm the one who must apologize, Dr. Chenoweth. And Mr. Spock. I'm so sorry. None of that was your fault. It's my fault, my fault. Please forgive me. You did nothing. And I'm sorry to you, Leonard, really sorry. Please don't be embarrassed. Or angry with me. Everybody."

McCoy can see that Spock and Chenoweth are almost in shock, Anon humiliated. For no explicable reason, an enormous weight has lifted from his shoulders, and he begins to laugh. It's contagious and in a moment, Chenoweth joins him. Stupefied at first, Anon's giggles return, and then she too laughs heartily.

Spock doesn't participate in the hysterics, but does regain his composure, if not his dignity. "I believe it would be wise for Protocol Five to be very specifically directed and controlled for our next iteration. Our measurements were less than ideal for our first attempt."

"Your measurements were for shit, Spock," McCoy retorts, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"Why must you continually employ inaccurate vulgarities, Doctor," Spock answers.

"Oh, I think it was pretty accurate, Mr. Spock," Chenoweth contradicts. "Completely accurate." She picks up her deserted tricorder and slaps at the End button, plops into her chair, and battles to recover her equanimity, while still breaking into sporadic fits of laughter.

"I think Mr. Spock is right," Anon offers. "Me and my impulsivity are not a good combination for skin-to-skin. Especially with Leonard." The two doctors lose it again, gasping for breath.

Spock and Anon nod at each other. They are going to have to be the ones to design a controlled experiment, clearly. They meet at Spock's station and converse quietly.

Once Chenoweth develops a bad case of hiccoughs, tamping down her laughter; McCoy can talk again, despite having to clutch his aching sides. "We've got food on board – let's have at it. I'm starving."

"No, Doctor," Spock replies. "We have determined hunger is going to be the next skin-to-skin in communication. Two of us may eat, you and Ensign Anon will experiment with how feelings of hunger and satiation are spread amongst the four of us. Dr. Chenoweth and I will set up our equipment directed, first at Anon, then each of the rest of us in turn. The remaining members of our group can eat after that. We will also experiment with remembered fear, anger, sadness, and happiness. I think that will be sufficient for this protocol. Help yourselves, Doctors McCoy and Chenoweth, to your lunches, so we may begin. I do hope you are not so hungry that you fail to leave some for the ensign and myself."

"Fun's over," McCoy grumbles, and he pads to the replicator to rustle up some fixings. Chenoweth joins him, and they dine together, while Spock and Anon wait in silence, Spock at his console, Anon seated next to the diners, one of whom maintains skin-to-skin contact with her all the while.

The configuration of instruments was complicated and required several adjustments and retakes before Spock and Chenoweth are satisfied with the results. Spock calls out to Anon to join him in partaking of lunch, but she shakes her head and removes herself to the far seat. She pulls up her knees, wraps her arms around her shins, and McCoy is immediately at her side. Chenoweth watches in puzzlement for a moment, then surreptitiously aims her tricorders in their direction and turns her attention to the readings.

"Soli, don't go away," McCoy pleaded. "Talk to me. We're more than halfway done. Let's just get it over with. Have something to eat – it will take the edge off. Talk to me, dear heart."

Anon loosens her hold on her legs and allows her feet to slide to the floor again. She wraps her arms around McCoy instead and nuzzles her head into his chest. "Get in my head," he encourages. She does, and they are the only two people in the shuttle.

 _I hated doing hunger, Leonard. It felt so manipulative. Like sharing our kisses. I don't want to do anger or fear or sadness or happiness. Mr. Spock thought that raw emotion was the best measurement of skin-to-skin and he's probably right but I don't care and it makes me feel evil and I don't want to …_

"Shh, shh, shh," McCoy once again finds himself in the role of telepath whisperer. _You don't want to, you don't have to. I honestly doubt they need any more measurements beyond what they already have for skin-to-skin. We'll stand together on this. Just don't go away, Darlin', okay?_

"Okay," she murmurs. "For now."

McCoy pulls her arms away and kisses her gloved hands, laying them in her lap before he stands and faces the other two participants. Now he notices Chenoweth at her instruments and makes a mental note to ask her about what she found before Anon unwrapped herself.

"Sorry, Spock, we're done with skin-to-skin," McCoy declares.

Spock raises an eyebrow. "Not a bit, Doctor, we have only begun. One set of results is insufficient for Protocol Five. We have multiple data sets for the others."

"You may only have one data set, but you have two results. Just because you got no data points from the first go-round doesn't mean you didn't get results. You know how distressing the results were, even for you, my fine, pokerfaced friend. Our mutual hysterics afterward were a perfect example of how humans laugh to block off pain. It wasn't that funny. I say we're moving on. Dr. Chenoweth, you're the attending for the ensign. Do you concur?"

Chenoweth straightens up from her study of the tricorder readings when Anon was curling up. She walks the length of the shuttle, crouches in front of her patient and takes her hands. Anon lifts her eyes and squeezes the doctor's fingers. Chenoweth's head snaps back, and an involuntary, "Oh!" escapes her. Her head falls forward; she relaxes, squeezes back, and rises. "I concur."

Outnumbered, Spock concedes defeat. "Protocol Six then. Long-distance neural communication. I shall need a few minutes to reconfigure controls to auto. Are you sure you cannot be persuaded to eat some lunch, Ensign? I myself would prefer nourishment at this time, before initiating the last two protocols."

Anon rubs her eyes, presses her fingertips to her temples. "If you're hungry, you should eat. But if you won't unless I join you, Mr. Spock, then, yes, I'll eat something as well. And only one more protocol. I've changed my mind about Protocol Seven. I won't do it. I'm confident you have enough results to do a search for my planet based on the data you have recorded. I'm not doing hand-to-hand. Sorry."

"Understood, Ensign," Spock concedes. "Let us nourish ourselves prior to preparing for Protocol Six."

"Agreed." Anon joins Spock at the replicator.

McCoy is supremely disappointed. The bizarre experience of becoming Anon while she became him has haunted his days, infected his dreams. He has burned to know what exactly happened in his brain and hers when, as she put it, he "fixed" her. There will never be another opportunity.

Chenoweth has returned to her console, and McCoy slips over to catch a view of whatever it is has captured her attention. Her fingers are rapidly pressing keys; the time stamp is Anon's fetal moment. That was not one of the experimental protocols, and he finds himself pleased that she leapt at the opportunity for independent research. He takes pride in his med team, never more so than when one of them pursues information out of sheer curiosity. The displays are flashing too quickly for him to catch up; he'll discuss her findings another time.

Spock and Anon are dining in comfortable silence. McCoy settles in to his seat, rubs his face and head vigorously. His eyes are itching; some coffee would help. He grabs a cuppa at the replicator, returns to his seat and works through his beverage until Spock has completed his meal and set up the instruments for long-distance testing.

Anon dumps most of her meal into recycling, and seats herself, this time in the bow. Spock piles his equipment, plus Chenoweth's computer with the tricorder for measuring McCoy's responses, in a single tall stack, and McCoy joins him.

"Spock to Transporter Room."

"Scott here."

"Mr. Scott, please transport Dr. McCoy and myself and my equipment to Shuttle Two."

"Aye, sir."

The transporter glow shimmers golden about McCoy and Spock, and then they vanish. Chenoweth and Anon wait, separate and together, for fifteen minutes until Spock's voice penetrates the shuttle.

"Protocol Six. Long-distance Neural Communication. Shuttle Two with Subject M is now three hundred thousand kilometers from Shuttle One with Subject A. Tricorder on Shuttle Two is aimed in the direction of Shuttle One. Medical tricorder on Shuttle Two is directed at Subject M."

Chenoweth responds, "Medical tricorder on Shuttle One is directed as Subject A and is recording data. Commence Protocol Six."

McCoy immediately is flooded by Anon's thoughts and emotions. _My love, I know you're not going to like this, but I have to meditate just as soon as I'm able. Please come back to me and wait until I'm finished. I did almost everything I was asked, but I have to ponder why it was impossible to complete, when I really did want to. Maybe I'll figure it out, maybe not. But please, please be there. I'm sorry to ask so much of you_.

"Protocol Six, Run One complete. Increase distance between Shuttles One and Two by two hundred thousand kilometers to five hundred thousand kilometers." Spock interrupts McCoy's listening ear briefly. There is a three-minute pause. "Initiate Run Two."

 _Soli, are you listening?_

 _Of course, Leonard. Tell me._

 _Spock wants to do four runs. He'll put distance between the shuttles until we're a million kilometers apart, and then we're done. Really done. Can you hang in there?_

 _I can as long as we're together._

"Protocol Six, Run Two complete." Spock interrupts again. "Increase distance between Shuttles One and Two by two hundred fifty thousand kilometers to seven hundred fifty thousand kilometers." There is a four-minute pause. "Initiate Run Three."

 _Soli, are you still there?_

 _You know I am, Leonard._

 _Good, very good. While he was setting up, I got on his case, and Spock agreed to allow us as much time alone on the shuttle as we need. As much as we want. If you have to go fetal, keep that in mind, okay? We'll have some time together to integrate everything you've gone through … we've gone through. If nothing else_ …

"Protocol Six, Run Three complete." McCoy's jaw is clenched, his teeth ache. One more, just one more. Spock continues, "Increase distance between Shuttles One and Two by two hundred thousand kilometers to one million kilometers." There is a five-minute pause. "Initiate Run Four."

 _Soli, listen._

 _I'm listening, my love. I want to listen to you; I love to listen to you …_

 _Soli, if nothing else, we can have an overnight, another day, whatever we need to recover. You can hold onto that, I promise._

 _Thank you, Leonard. But I still need to meditate. I've been fighting the feeling, but I just have to. I'm sorry to leave you alone but I can't help it. Please forgive me. I'll_ …

"Protocol Six complete." Spock is as cool as ever. "Ending instrument readings. Shuttle Two returning to Enterprise and Shuttle One. Estimated time to intercept ten minutes." Nine minutes and fifty seconds pass while McCoy fights off Soli's compulsion to rock back and forth, to curl into a ball, to surrender to her crippled emotions.

Spock, taciturn as he shuts down his equipment, prepares for his lab and subsequent analysis of the data. At last he says, "Mr. Scott, prepare for transport. Bring Chenoweth and her equipment to the transporter room. Transport McCoy to Shuttle One. I shall pilot Shuttle Two to Shuttle Bay."

"Aye, sir. What is your command regarding returning Shuttle One to Shuttle Bay?"

Spock glances over at McCoy. "Dr. McCoy will be responsible for returning Shuttle One to the Enterprise. Spock out."

"Aye, sir."

Before McCoy can express his gratitude to Spock, he feels himself entering the disembodied state that is transporting. He finds himself aboard Shuttle One. Chenoweth, her tricorder, and her computer are gone; Anon has also gone – fetal, that is, on the floor in front of the stern seat.

McCoy sighs. He pulled her out of meditation once today; he's not going to do it again. If she needs it, she needs it. That having been said, it's too soon for supper. The whiskey produced by the replicator is swill, so that's out. He makes his way to the bench and stretches out. A few minutes contemplating Anon's still figure, and he makes a decision. He stands, strips off his clothes, kicks them aside, and lies again on the bench. He worries he might doze off, but his mind is too agitated for that. He watches and waits.

Anon releases her tightly held limbs and unfolds. She looks up, sees McCoy on the bench across the shuttle, closely examines his prone body.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself, Darlin'. You're back."

"Yes. You don't have any clothes on."

"You're very observant."

"Well, you're very naked."

"Yes. What do you want to do about it?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

Eighteen hours, three movies, two concerts, and repeated neural et alia interactions pass before McCoy contacts Shuttle Bay for permission to enter. Permission that Anon had long since granted him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Section 2: Dance to the Music**

 **Chapter 1: We Are Family**

Anon's first anniversary aboard the Enterprise. Her first Academy graduation shore leave, and her first clash with destiny: will Andersen's family still want to adopt her after Janay's death?

Anon's last rendezvous with McCoy in Shuttle Bay had been two weeks ago. The flurry of activities and responsibilities as they approach graduation have sent each of them in different, incompatible directions.

Stanley has tried to recruit a new Geo Lab leader, but as he predicted none has been forthcoming. He will remain in that role for at least the next year. His priority, promised to Anon during their first lab shift, will be to schedule another Reynos 3 expedition. Starfleet wheels grind slowly, but enough interesting features have been developed around the Reynos 3 carbon variant, that he is confident they will be slotted to return and acquire some untreated mineral samples, if not this year, then next.

Anon has been caught up in farewell and congratulatory activities for Groome. In this way she has learned that death is not the only way to lose a friend. Anon's happiness that Groome has been promoted and is about to begin a new, longed-for, exciting phase of her life is tempered by the anticipation of the loss of her companionship and, okay a biggie, her percussion excellence.

Spock had agreed that Anon have the responsibility of returning Andersen's effects to her family, but now that the time has come she flutters from item to item, trying to whittle down what to collect and how to organize their return.

Andersen's most precious possessions had been her art, her sculpture. The majority of the objects will be delivered to her family, but Anon had set aside those pieces whose disposition she had already known from conversations with her late friend: a representation of Vulcan logic for Spock, two Sing & Sculpt sculptures for herself (though she is planning to pass along the "Sing, Sing, Sing with a Swing" piece to Groome – a perfect gift for the percussionist, and one that Andersen would have heartily approved.) With the practical Simbollah advising her, she has laundered Andersen's formal Lieutenant Junior Grade uniform with its pins and gold star. Having boxed it, she will never look at it again.

McCoy's duties are, of course, far more diverse. The invaluable Rollins has been promoted to Chief Medical Officer of the Newsome, as he well deserved, but due to timing complications of the Newsome's current CMO, Rollins will remain aboard the Enterprise for another three months, thus training his Academy replacement, which is fine, but Sickbay and its scheduling will be overcrowded for a while.

He also has to do inventory, an onerous, annual task, of all body parts, whether full- or partially-grown. And most awful of all his responsibilities, he has to prepare for the memorial ceremony of all lost Starfleet crew since last year's graduation. It's always painful, but this year will be far more difficult. He had a close relationship with Andersen and doesn't know how he will face her parents. Mostly he doesn't prepare for the memorial so much as force it to the back of his mind and avoid thinking about it.

Of course, Anon had peppered him with questions when she learned why his shore leave was shorter than most crew members. And of course, she was captivated by all the tedious details of inventory: double- and triple- and quadruple-checking the actual intake, storage, and labeling of the new crews' stem cells, blood plasma, and partially grown organs, all stored cryogenically under his supervision.

Yes, she was captivated. Her hanging on his every word makes him feel like the Most Interesting Man in the Galaxy. It makes no sense for her to be fascinated by recitations of boring tasks. Okay, yes, it boosts his ego. Nothing wrong with that. But it certainly bores him and he would have preferred not to go on about it. He ponders: was she like that with Andersen? Is she like that with Simbollah? He'll never know. He has no medical excuse to ask, just personal vanity. He does enjoy the attentiveness, even when discussing otherwise dull subjects.

Not to mention – and Lord, he tried not to mention – the outtake of transferred crews' biologics, including the remains of the lost crew members. Of course, Anon had queried him about that as well. It was after this that she stopped asking questions and grew quiet. So, it was his turn to question her.

"How did you request disposal of your remains should you be killed in action?" He winced at the sound of his own words. The McCoy knack for lousy bedside manner bleeds into his every delicate conversation. But Anon chirped "Burial at Sea," and sang "I've got no roo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oots! I've got no ROOTS!"

While he was still in shock over her lighthearted reaction to such a morbid topic, she replied, "Without family to receive my remains, it was the only choice. And I'd be dead – why would I care, right? Janay thought I should be cremated like her, said that she would care about my ashes, but she wasn't next of kin, so how she felt didn't enter into it." Anon grew silent again. He could almost see the wheels turning. Assuming the Andersens didn't renege on adoption, that aspect of her solitary life would change dramatically. Lord, he hopes it does. She so wants a family. She so wants Janay's family.

"Soli, oh, Soli!"

The whole Andersen clan is there as Anon materializes. She is surrounded by the boxes of sculptures and tchotchkes and the uniform she has packed, but they push their way through the stuff to reach her and embrace her. Only Mater – no, that was Janay's deliberately goofy, pretentious Latin name for her mother – only Mor didn't tower over Anon. All the Andersens knew better than to touch her skin, giving her nothing more than air kisses, although they didn't know why. Janay had never explained, leaving it up to Anon, who had never offered an explanation either; they just accepted that as the way it was. They adored Janay and thus they adored her friend Anon; what Janay said was how it was.

Anon exclaims, predictably, about sixteen-month-old Niels's growth over the year since she last saw him, then she is hustled away amidst overlapping chatter. All of them bear the haunting loss of their daughter and sister Janay in the tension around their eyes; nevertheless, all of them are glad to see her and greet her with love and affection.

The large family enters the Academy transporter room. Far gives the coordinates for the boxes and luggage but holds Anon back as she steps up to accompany her baggage. "No, Soli, our destination is different. We will go home later."

Naminka, Janay's older sister, noticed Anon's sudden trembling and slipped her arm around her shoulders. Anon shot her a grateful look and leaned in. Naminka wasn't as tall as Janay, but she was almost as strong, and her dark skin and eyes were warm and reassuring. Anon had seen images of herself from Keeper just before she had been abducted; if she ever spent enough time in the sun again she would turn almost as brown as Naminka, though their hair textures and facial features were very different from each other.

Anon puts sufficient space between herself and Naminka to be able to clasp her hand and takes in the rest of Andersen's family. Victor is the eldest brother, and the tallest member of the family, a couple of centimeters taller than Far. Toddler Niels is riding on his father's shoulders, a dizzying height from Anon's perspective but clearly one the child is used to. Victor's wife Astrid, blonde, blue-eyed, taller than Mor, shorter than Naminka, much shorter than Janay had been, is arm-in-arm with her father-in-law. Reuben, dark and handsome, taller only than his mother and Anon, escorts Mor by her elbow.

Far leans in to the transporter technician to give the coordinates for the family. Anon's sharp ears can make out the numbers, but she doesn't comprehend their meaning. Everyone else is excited, but nobody is giving anything away. They box her out, so that the first group of five dematerializes and is on their way before she can enter the transport pod with the remainder. Naminka releases her hand, dematerializing next to her with a broad grin on her face.

When the second group rematerializes, all but two of the entire company have faces wreathed in smiles: Anon, whose brow is furrowed in confusion, and little Niels, whose torso twists in curiosity as he strains this way and that against his father's firm grip, trying to take in this unfamiliar setting.

Anon's face changes from confusion to wide-eyed astonishment as they leave the transportation room and enter the main lobby of the massive facility. This was the place on Terra to which she was first transported on her way to the Academy: The Federation Administrative Courthouse of Terra. She had had to register as a visiting Bolian, confirmed her identity as a First Year, gone through screenings, photos, yada, yada. The astonishment turns to joy mingled with, naturally, anxiety.

"You're going to adopt me." Her voice is a whisper, inaudible above the frenetic sounds of the courthouse.

"Guess why we're here!" Far's bellow overwhelms the other noises such that everyone around them pauses to stare for a moment before resuming their own business.

"You're going to adopt me." Anon if anything speaks even more quietly than in her first attempt, but this time Mor reads her lips and embraces her fiercely.

"Ja, kære barn. As Janay wanted more than anything, we want you part of our family forever. That is, if you haven't changed your mind."

Strong emotion gets Anon's nictitating membranes to twitching, and she buries her face in Mor's chest until her eyes are reliably clear again. Janay's family has never seen her eyes with the whitish film of the membrane covering them, they've never known why they can't touch her skin, they have heard nothing about her hellish upbringing on Ktak, they have no inkling that her actual age puts her between Naminka and Reuben. They do know that Janay loved her and wanted to welcome her into the family as completely as Naminka and Reuben had been even before Janay's birth, and as Astrid has been through marriage to Victor.

They do know that over the course of five plus years they have come to love Anon, and that she has never had a family of her own. For a family such as the Andersens, that is enough. For a traumatized individual such as Anon, it is not.

Anon pulls out of Mor's embrace and straightens to her full height. Such as it is. Now her voice is strained but forceful. "Wait. I haven't told you how Janay died. You need to consider everything. You may change your minds, and if you do I will accept it. Janay was …"

Mor interrupts. "We were informed by Starfleet, Soli, min barn. She died trying to save you, ja?"

Anon cringes. Her cursed perfect memory floods her mind with the images and sounds and feelings of Janay's last moments. "Yah, she did. But you don't understand, she didn't need to. I was okay. She came into the mine anyway because …"

"Because it was her responsibility, her duty, and she loved you. True?" Far interrupts this time, not a with a bellow but with strength and confidence. Mor takes Anon's gloved left hand in both her hands, tears welling; Naminka grips Anon's other hand. and pulls her mother close. Three women as one.

"True," Anon admits, and she nods her head in acknowledgment.

"On the day she met you, she messaged us that she wanted us to adopt you. Did you know that?" Mor fights back the tears as hard as Anon fights her third eyelids, but without success. Tears flow down her cheeks, followed by more tears.

"No, I didn't know that," Anon confesses. Now her third eyelids finally engage, and she cannot conceal them. Of course, comes the inevitable question, but who will be first to ask?

This time it's Astrid. "What's the matter with your eyes?"

Of course, comes Anon's standard answer. "Nothing's the matter with my eyes. It's normal for my species." She turns her head away, for all the good it does.

Mor squeezes Anon's hand and tugs slightly; Anon turns back and looks at each member of the family in turn. Each of them feels an intense question directed at them, not knowing that every other person is experiencing the same sensation.

Mor, the matriarch, answers for all of them. "We love you, Soli. We are in complete agreement about this. We all want to adopt you, as daughter, as sister. Janay wanted it more powerfully than anything else she ever asked for. It seems as if we have a few things to learn about you …" Through the tension the good nature of the Andersen family penetrates, and laughter spreads until even Anon can't help smiling at the obvious implication, and her nictitating membranes retract. "But the most important thing we need to know about you is whether you want to enter our family as much as we want you to. I can see this is not what you were expecting …" and now Anon bursts into laughter. "Understatement of the century, Mor!"

"So, what say you?" Far the patriarch asks the determining question.

Anon takes two deep, cleansing breaths. Her voice is strong, clear, unmistakable. "Yes, I want to become an Andersen. I've hoped for this for so long. Please, make it real, dear family. Kære familie."

"Real, ja," Mor beams. "Let's make it real."

They make their way through the warren of rooms and corridors in the courthouse to turn Solitaire Uniqueum Anon of Bolarus 9 into Solitaire Uniqueum Andersen of Terra.

McCoy, in orbit around Earth, up to his eyeballs in administrative manure, inundated by the buzz of Sickbay personnel, receives a notification from his quarters: "Incoming message from Ensign Anon."

"Computer, display message." He holds his breath.

"THEY SAID YES."

McCoy's face breaks into a smile he doesn't lose through all the rest of the day's tedium, He rejoices. Whatever horrors may erupt when Anon meets his family, no one can take this moment away from her.

Anon awakens abruptly and jerks into a sitting position, as she always does. She looks around, reaffirming the previous day's events, and relaxes against the headboard.

She is sharing Naminka's room, for the first time. She had always shared Janay's room or slept in the guest room before. This was yesterday's only truly awkward decision, the overnight accommodations. She didn't want to sleep in Janay's room; judging by the anguished faces, nobody else was ready for her to do so either. But sleeping in Naminka's room was the perfect transition. As a sister, not a guest.

Anon had explained about the nictitating membranes, McCoy's speculation about their evolutionary purpose, the emotional tie-in, but had not been able to engage them on command. Not that she'd ever tried, but she'd never known whether she could control them. Now she knows: she can't. Okay.

She had narrated the saga of her upbringing on Ktak, her launch into the galaxy, her recovery by the Ferrenghis, her delivery to Bolarus 9, her education, her fervor for music, her 2D fetish, her admission to and her first year at the Academy. She had saved the little bitty minor detail of neural communication for another day. Maybe this day. Why not?

Anon watches her sister sleep in the neighboring bed for almost an hour before deciding that Naminka might think it was kind of weird, maybe even a little creepy. She grabs her computer and keyboard and slips into the guest room to bury herself in music until the rest of the household arises.

Although Victor and Astrid will be heading off to their respective jobs today, they have allotted enough time to breakfast with the rest of the family and so arrive while Mor and Far are whipping the meal together. As she has done for years now, Anon sets up the dining area with utensils, napkins, and condiments. When her brother, sister-in-law, and nephew arrive she breaks off from her task to greet them, for the first time as their sister.

Anon, Victor, and Astrid make their salutations, then Anon turns to Niels. Other than Janay's – no, her – nephew, Anon has no experience with children. Niels is a year older and a year more agile and competent, a year more curious. When she leans in with a baby-friendly, high-pitched voice, "Hey, Niels, look at you! Such a big boy, wave to Auntie Soli like a big boy," he utterly ignores her babble and grabs her ear to examine; he carefully feels its pointed tip.

Unprepared for skin-to-skin, she responds neurally, on automatic, scarcely aware when the rest of the family is drawn in. The adults present rub their temples, pound the heels of their hands into their brows, perform all the rituals people do when forced into neural communication with Anon and their heads buzz and throb. She is oblivious to everyone but her nephew.

 _Yes, Niels, isn't that interesting? It is pointy but it is just as soft as your Mor's and Far's ear. Not sharp at all. Soft ear. Blød øre_.

 _Blød øre_. "Blød øre." Niels beams in self-satisfaction as he repeats the words that describe his experience. Finally, Anon becomes aware of the presence of the other family members and gently pries his fingers from her ear. He is satisfied to hold her hand as they gaze in awe at each other. Niels and Anon remain in neural communication, and he chants. "Blød øre. Soft ear. Din øre er blød. Your ear is soft. Din øre er blød."

Astrid, the mother affected and thus the first one to react protectively, snatches Niels from his father's back and pulls him away. Anon breaks off communication, and Niels wails, reaching for her.

Anon backs away. "I'm sorry. It was an accident, a mistake. Let me explain."

"Please do, little sister," growls Victor, stepping between his wife and son and his newly strange sister.

"Maybe I should have said something about this yesterday," Anon begins.

"Maybe you should." Victor's eyes drill into hers. He alone didn't engage in head-rubbing reaction to the sensation of first-time neural connection, but his eyes are squinting, blinking rapidly.

Mor and Far join the family group, Mor alternating between wiping her hands on a towel and wiping the towel on her forehead. All are silent and expectant.

"I have … I do this thing … It's called … I'm sorry …" The damned stammer is in full bloom, and nobody says anything to help.

Anon takes two deep breaths, then a third. "I have neural communication. In my brain. With my brain. I'm sorry." She breathes deeply again, tries again. "Skin-to-skin. It's automatic. I'm sorry. It hurts, I know. It will pass. No harm. It. It does no harm. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't tell you before. Yesterday."

The adults remain silent. Niels squirms and pushes against his mother, cooing and laughing, trying to reach Anon. He alone is without tension. Finally, Reuben, the youngest of the adults, speaks.

"I feel fine now. Don't you? Niels wants to do it again, look at him. I think it's okay, Soli. Did Janay know about this?"

Anon nods slowly. "Yah. Since Stardate … I mean, since last, um, October."

"She should have told us. But she was okay with it?" Reuben persisted.

"Eventually. She hated it at first. Everybody does. But she got used to it." Under normal circumstances Anon would have her eyes glued to the floor, but her gaze is fixed on Niels. He is eager for more, though separated from Anon by his parents.

"She got used to it. Ja, okay. But look at Niels. If he felt like me he would have been screaming. But he is perfectly fine." Reuben, the little brother who never gets any respect, or so he claims, leads the way. As one, they stare at the toddler. Sure enough, Reuben is right.

Astrid is the first to speak. "That was his first sentence, Soli. And bi-lingual. Two sentences. Clear as can be. He never did more than string a couple of words together. Not like this."

The tension is broken, and the adults chatter in great excitement, to each other, to Niels, to Anon, integrating the exotic foreign into the familiar normal. Anon and Niels remain separate; the toddler starts to show signs of agitation, Anon neurally connects with him, then his eyes shine. He begins to sing, perfectly on pitch, an ancient North American lullaby. The adults quiet again to listen to Niels and his Auntie Soli singing together, as though they'd been musical partners forever. "Hush, little baby, don't say a word. Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird …"

Victor and Astrid each had called into work to notify of an additional delay. And another, as breakfast became the longest meal in the history of long meals. Niels was accustomed to being the center of attention – the first child, the first grandchild, the first nephew – but he had never drawn such breathless interest, nor had any child. Anon stayed in his head, listening for his active vocabulary, helping him physically form the words he was trying to speak, translating from the Danish into the common tongue that he had heard enough that he wanted to say his words and phrases and sentences in that way as well. His mother was beside herself, and his father less demonstrative but just as excited.

Anon had difficulty conversing. So much complexity - the interweaving of her childhood on Ktak, her introduction to the concept of music on Bolarus 9, the contrast between Niels's eager absorption into neural communication and everyone else's abhorrence of the experience, the visual history of her life transmitted by Keeper – she tried to concentrate on what fascinated her family about Niels's development while thinking about the meaning of his easy acceptance of neural communication. Hence, a tendency to babble and stammer, only clearly speaking when referring to Niels.

Luckily for her, that was what the rest of the family was most interested in, and they didn't notice or disregarded her other starts and stops.

"Niels didn't have the same reaction to my being in his head as you did. I don't know why. Since he's genetically almost identical to you guys, it may be that infant brains, young brains, aren't repelled by my being in their heads. I don't know, I don't know. Maybe it's specifically young Terran brains – I was the youngest abductee on Ktak, and all the others had been brought there as children, so they should have been used to it, but … I don't know. I have to integrate this. I'll talk to Mr. Spock. Oh, and other species have some neural communicative abilities, like Vulcans, Betazoids. Is there be a difference in communications with them when they are children? Spock might … Um. Yes, Niels is special, very special; let me talk more about him."

Eyes that had been glazed over snap back to attention.

"Niels didn't just accept neural communication as being okay. He really loved it. That was palpable. He actively sought that state."

Victor and Astrid clamor for more, and Anon obliges.

"A child his age has a very large internalized vocabulary …"

"Ja, ja, he does! He understands everything, but he gets frustrated when we don't understand him!"

Fortunately for Anon, this is her first experience with first-time parents. Her eyes would have rolled right out the door if she had known just how brilliant every parent thinks their first-born is.

"Knowing how words are supposed to sound, and being able to control the tongue, lips, vocal cords, breath, everything enough to make the right sounds, they are very different events, skills. I only just now learned with Niels that I can neurally help guide his formation of his words so he can make the sounds he wants to make. How does that happen, neurologically, physically, intellectually, linguistically …"

Anon pauses and frowns. Her family waits for her next pronouncement as though she actually knows what she is talking about. She shrugs.

"Keep an eye on and an ear to Niels. Let's see whether what he has done today is internalized or whether he needs neural assistance to speak this well. He is, um, amazing. Very special. I, uh, I need to enter this in my computer, send it to Mr. Spock and Lt. Uhura. They will both be fascinated. By little Niels. He's so special. Please excuse me."

Anon bolts to the guest room where she had left her computer. She starts to try to speak to enter her thoughts, but her stammering and stuttering render her words untranslatable. She pulls out the keyboard and pounds at it for a half hour before laying her hands in her lap, taking another series of deep breaths, and commanding, "Computer, save as file 'Neural Communication, Terran Toddler.' Send file to Enterprise as messages for Lieutenant Uhura and Commander Spock. End session."

"Computer. Close Admin program." McCoy pushes himself away from the console and sags in his chair as he grinds his fists into his eyes. The damnable end-of-year bureaucratic chores are complete.

"Every 'I' is dotted, every 'T' is crossed. Or more like my eyes are crossed and my brain is dotty." His shoulders ache; he rolls them and experiences some small measure of relief. His tired eyes are another matter. He must remember to tell his attending – who is it this year? Rollins, he thinks, at least until he transfers to the Newsome – to correct the presbyopia.

As so often happens lately, his mind wanders and alights on Soli Anon. He's glad she had her time alone with her new family. Though maybe not so much glad as relieved. If they had changed their minds … too painful to imagine. Disposing of Andersen's cryo-stored organs and stem cells today was more than painful enough.

Until yesterday evening, when he received her message of triumph, delivered in all caps, McCoy had forced himself to close his mind to anything but administration. Now that his worst fears have been alleviated, he could start worrying anew about her reception by his family instead.

Not that he's worried, exactly; that would imply uncertainty. There's no uncertainty. He knows exactly what will happen. It's going to be a disaster, and he hasn't a clue how to avoid it, or even mitigate it. The moment he knew would come for the last eight months will take place in a matter of hours, when his dear, beloved, so very bigoted mother will hit the roof.

Guilt floods his body, tightening his chest, nauseating him. Over the course of eight months he should have been able to conceive of a way to prepare Anon for Ma and Ma for Anon – Julie and Joe will be wonderful, he knows – but he has come up empty every time when planning for his mother. So instead, boom. In your face. Which is one way, admittedly, but a way destined for disaster. All those years of arguing with her, presenting facts, demonstrating her error-strewn wrongness. All useless, all about to hit the fan.

Get some sleep, McCoy. You're going to have a long, rough day tomorrow. He rises and stretches, treads wearily out of his office.


	6. Chapter 6

**Section 2: Dance to the Music**

 **Chapter 2: You've Got to Be Carefully Taught**

"Good morning, Ms. Andersen. Ready to greet the day?"

McCoy never saw such a glow on Anon's face. "I am! How will you introduce me to your family, now that I have a real surname, from my real family?"

McCoy senses her joy even without her being in his head. "However you want me to. Full title and name, family connection, official Starfleet entry – give me the order and I will obey."

Anon mulls over the question. "For Starfleet purposes, I will remain Ensign Anon. It's more trouble than it's worth to change my name professionally. But I want you to introduce me to your family as Soli Andersen. Oh, wait, you said 'title' and that's Ensign. Did you mean that? Is it important? Oh, dear." She starts wringing her hands.

McCoy snatches her hands in his own and stills her frenetic movement.

"Your title means nothing to civilians. We'll both be in uniform, but my family won't care. I'll introduce you as Soli, Soli Andersen. I've mentioned your old name to my sister previously, but she'll go with the flow."

"I'll try to do that, too," Anon declares. "I've been practicing with Simbollah: my greeting, calling them Ms. Bonnie and Ms. Julie, shaking hands. But I'm still so nervous. Geezum!"

Anon presses against him briefly, then pulls away. She takes a deep breath and takes his hand in hers. "Let's go. I'm dancing with excitement." And so she was, rising up on her toes, pitter-pattering. They make their way down the corridor to the transporter room.

Just before they enter the room, McCoy stops short. He examines Anon closely. "Would you do something for me? It may not matter, but um, since we're not worrying about the formality of titles, uh, and so forth, um could you let your hair down? And maybe pocket your O2 pack? Just for now. It, uh, it may confuse the kids."

"Okay, sure." Anon pulls the elastic out of her hair so it cascades over her shoulders. She unclips the O2 pack and stuffs it and the elastic band into her pants pocket. McCoy pulls her hair forward and smooths it over her ears. "Let's go to Georgia, Darlin'."

"On that midnight train …" Anon sings.

"Whatever you sing. I mean, say." They enter the transporter room, Anon still singing, though she has switched songs. "… Georgia on my mind …"

The transporter coordinates McCoy had requested materialize them across the road from his mother's home. A centuries' old farm, overgrown rolling hills and fields stretch to the horizon. A large garden peeks out on either side of the house, and chickens peck enthusiastically in a cooped-up area.

The ancient farmhouse with its full-length covered porch (of course, there is a rocking chair on the porch, visible behind the balusters) sits comfortably astride the lot. A classic white picket fence borders the yard; its gate is closed to restrain Kim the dog, a collie/shepherd mix wriggling in excitement. Bonnie McCoy, McCoy's mother, is standing behind the fence, a calming hand on the dog's shoulder. Her hair is white and curly and her face weathered; her body type is of average height and stocky – despite her age she has broad shoulders and powerful hands. McCoy had told Anon that up until a few years ago she was a biology professor at university, but there is no trace of her intellectual background in her homebody bearing.

McCoy's sister Julie, surrounded by her husband Joe and children Alexi and JJ, welcomes them with a warm smile. She is the spitting image of McCoy, female style; tall and broad-shouldered, the same dark eyes and questioning eyebrows, thick black hair, though hers is curly like her mother's. She and Joe have taken vacation days for the meet and greet – to meet Anon and to greet her brother. Joe's countenance is smooth and relaxed, his brown skin and kinky hair in sharp contrast to his wife's Scotch-Irish background. As Anon is soon to learn, his even temper is a perfect balance for Julie's volatility, so like her brother. The children physically blend their parents' features in their olive complexions and brown eyes. They sport tightly curled black hair, Alexi's long and braided, JJ's short and tousled.

McCoy takes Anon's hand and watches as she assesses the people and landscape before her. When she looks up at him, sudden terror in her eyes, he inhales deeply and pulls her across the street.

As befits the family matriarch, Ma stands erect, waiting for McCoy and Anon to approach her. Not so Kim, who launches herself at McCoy with tremulous whining and yipping. Always, he has to greet the dog first, and when she has spent her welcome-home-I-thought-you-were-gone-forever energy, she turns her attention to Anon. To McCoy's surprise, the dog approaches with wagging tail but sits solemnly in front of Anon and raises her snout. Anon bends over and touches her nose to Kim's, then the dog, satisfied, returns to Ma's side.

With Kim out of the way, Julie and her family descend on McCoy and Anon. The children wrap themselves around McCoy's legs, immobilizing him, while he and his sister exchange hugs and kisses, he and his brother-in-law pound each other on the back, and Julie seizes Anon's hands in her own, crying, "Welcome, Ms. Soli, welcome! We've heard so much about you!"

Julie has performed to McCoy's expectations, and he can see some of Anon's terror has subsided. But there is still his mother, and now he steers Anon before Ma, though he maintains a noticeable distance between them, and announces, "Ma, this is Soli Andersen I've told you all about. My very special gal."

McCoy feels Anon stiffen under his fingers. She is regarding his mother, has pushed her hair behind her ears, is extending her hand and stammering. "Pleased. Pleased to meet you. Ms. … Mrs. Professor McCoy. I've been looking forward to this. To this day."

Anon is inordinately unnerved; McCoy eyes his mother and knows why – exactly what he had been dreading.

Ma had become rigid, her hands clenched at her sides. She says only, "Yes," to Anon, then turns to McCoy and growls, "You didn't tell me all about her, Lenny. We need to have a conversation." She spins and marches into the house, dog at her side. McCoy, deflated, knowing what lies ahead, peels the children from his thighs, tosses a "back in a minute," to Anon, and follows his mother, marshalling his resources.

Stunned into silence, Joe, Julie, and Anon stare at each other briefly, then Anon beams at the children and exclaims, "Let's explore!" She immediately launches into a song, "Climbing over rocky mountains, Tripping rivulet and fountain, Passing where the willows quiver!" Her arms wave wildly, she skips and leaps; the children race to keep up.

When Anon reaches a peach tree, she swoops Alexi into her arms and deposits her among the lower branches, then lifts and plants JJ onto her shoulders and somehow manages to clamber into the fork of the dwarf tree, holding him tightly with one hand and grabbing the trunk with her other, all the while singing.

Joe and Julie trade astonished glances, taking in the peculiar scene. They put their arms around each other and nod their heads to Anon's precise rhythms. All the while Anon stays in motion, singing, lowering JJ, whipping Alexi off the branch over her head, and down again, tiptoeing along a non-existent line, kangaroo-jumping, horse-trotting, hawk-gliding, the children spiraling off on their own paths, never far from hers. She is the Pied Piper; they are the children of Hamelin.

She eventually gasps between each phrase but hollers the last line of the song even so: "Hail it as a true ally, a true … al … ly!" She collapses to the ground, legs crisscrossed, and the children tumble into her lap.

"Again, again!" JJ shouts, and just for an instant Anon's face is shadowed by pain of remembrance, but she recovers quickly. "I'm out of breath. You have to sing with me this time."

"I don't know the words." Alexi frets, being the age where everything has to be just right.

"I bet you do!" Anon teased, and JJ shouts again, "Rocky mountains!"

"Yes, that's right, my dear," Anon declares, and, breathless or not – she really misses the O2 pack, still stashed in her pocket – she revs up the song once more. "Climbing over rocky mountains …"

Enchanted by Anon and the children's immersion in their magic world, Julie at first doesn't notice that Joe has edged towards the house. She joins him there, where they can hear Ma berating McCoy and his responses.

"Not in my house, Leonard. How could you. It's revolting. You know how I feel about … those things. You've broken my heart. You couldn't have hurt me more deeply."

"Ma, she's wonderful. She's a person, not a thing. Talk to her. You'll love her. I love her. Ma, listen to me. Please. It's time you grew out of this. The galaxy is full of amazing people, and Soli's the most amazing. Try! This is not about you, dammit …"

Joe and Julie exchange glances again, mutually praying that Anon cannot hear the argument, but of course she can, and she sings all the louder and leads the children to the far reaches of the fenced-in yard.

Anon has finally conceded defeat to oxygen deprivation, after two Rocky Mountains and a Tripping Hither, Tripping Thither. She sprawls on the ground, JJ and Alexi fighting for lap space. Joe and Julie scoop up the youngsters to give her air.

She smiles gratefully, if weakly, at them "I'll be okay. In a minute. The oxygen level. On Terra. It's a little. Low for me." She returns to sucking wind.

McCoy exits the house, alone, a dark, foreboding cloud hovering over his head, though he forces a light tone. "Hey, Jules, Joe, let's stretch our legs, show Soli around the farm."

Julie winces. Obviously, McCoy wants to make an escape, and she sympathizes, having heard what he was subjected to; still, he has not paid any mind to Anon lying on her back, gulping for air

"Land's sake, Lenny, let her catch her breath! Ms. Soli, can you manage all right?" she asks. Anon rises to the occasion and lurches to her feet.

"Of course, Julie, I mean Ms. Julie. I'd love to see the farm. Your family's farm." McCoy at last sees how shaky she is, and hastens to her, supporting her with his arm around her waist. Julie can't miss the look of adoration that passes between them, and cringes at the looming conflict with her mother. Why, oh, why didn't Lenny give her a heads-up. She will give him what for as soon as the opportunity arises.

McCoy feels Anon leaning heavily against him and pulls her closer. "What have you been up to, dear heart? Earth oxygen level is even lower than ship standard." Then he shuts himself up; he was the one who asked her not to wear her O2 pack, in a pointless effort to make her appear less alien. He's a jackass.

Yet she smiles at him. "I was playing with the children and I guess I got carried away. So fun. Totally worth it."

"Can you walk? I can carry you if you're dizzy. Where's your pack? Clip it on – here, I'll do it." Belated though it is, McCoy's concern is all-encompassing. Julie walks beside them, one hand in Alexi's, one in Joe's, JJ riding on Joe's shoulders.

"I'm okay, Leonard. I had a wicked good time. I'll tell you all about it. Later." That is the limit of Anon's air, and she walks, silently, breathing in her O2 supply, recovering, McCoy's arm around her waist.

The acreage of the farm only becomes apparent when they leave the fenced-in yard. Within the yard is a well-populated chicken coop – for the eggs, Julie explains, and Alexi runs to the nesting boxes to find one and bring it back.

Alexi holds it out to Anon who reaches for it and then withdraws her trembling hand. Julie smoothly intervenes, "Ms. Soli is plum worn out from chasing you youngsters around. Do you think you can bring the egg to Granny, Alexi? She'd surely appreciate it, maybe trade it for something yummy."

Alexi nods her head vigorously and carefully carries the egg cupped in her hands into the house.

Anon smiles up at McCoy and whispers, "Granny is what you called your grandmother." He squeezes her waist. "A family tradition."

Alexi reappears, minus one egg, plus two cookies. She reaches up to JJ to give him his, but Joe has to do the transfer. "Say 'thank you, Alexi.'" "Thank you, Lexi."

Within the fence the vegetable garden is well-tended, with the mature greens and new bean sprouts in neat rows. Past the fence, the farm turns disheveled.

Three fruit trees – a plum, a pear, and an apple – are developing fruit, but are battling aggressive twining vines to do so. This is McCoy's old, familiar world, and alarm bells go off.

His first target naturally is his sister, and he gives Julie a baleful look. "Ma told me not to worry about the "Three Sisters" last year. She said you'd give her a hand tending them."

Julie's emotional temperature rises immediately; they may as well be bickering children again. "She never asked me to do anything, Lenny, so I just assumed you did the spring prep work as you always do. I'm supposed to be a mind reader?"

At that comment, McCoy releases Anon and excuses himself to jog back to the tool shed. Joe hands JJ off to Julie and follows McCoy. They return with a barrow of compost, loppers, a pitchfork, and a shovel. The men pull off their shirts, and attack the overwhelmed bases of the trees generally, and the twining vines in particular. By the time Joe and McCoy declare victory and quit, they have rescued a half-dozen trees, not just the Three Sisters, from their invaders.

Julie has given instruction to Anon and the children, and they set to work pulling Spanish moss off the branches and unwinding the invasive bittersweet vines that by now have been lopped off and dug up by Joe and McCoy.

"The Spanish moss is harmless, just an epiphyte, but it's unsightly and a goldurn nuisance when we're trying to tend the trees." Julie explains. "The bittersweet is a killer. Lore has it that kudzu used to be the enemy plant, but somehow, they got rid of it and now we've got bittersweet instead. Beautiful berries. The birds love to eat them and spread the seeds, but the vines eventually will girdle the trees and kill them.

Anon watches and listens intently. As she collects the Spanish moss, she and the children create pretend nests with it (Anon's idea), braid it like hair (Alexi's idea), and finally throw it at each other (JJ's idea). As she carefully untwines the bittersweet from the trunks and branches of the trees, she and the children wrap it around their fingers (Anon's idea), brandish it like whips (Alexi's idea), and scythe the weeds with a broadside (JJ's idea). Their activities leave Julie, Joe, and McCoy free to confer on the future of the Three Sisters.

As the project winds down, Julie promises, "I'll talk to Ma about this, I promise, and I definitely won't hesitate to guilt her. Joe knows what he's doing with the trees now, and sure doesn't mind stepping up. We all love the fruit in season – makes it easy to keep the kids engaged. I just didn't realize Ma was struggling, Lenny. Sorry to get all defensive. Taking care of the Three Sisters shouldn't be all on you."

The tree work finished, McCoy looks down at his sweating body in dismay, exchanges revolted glances with Joe. Still they shrug their shirts on, gross or not. At last the little party can continue the hike.

Anon comments as they stroll, "I've never seen any place like this. It's enormous and beautiful and crammed full of so many kinds of food. My friend Michelle would love it. She's a botanist, but I don't know whether she's ever seen a farm."

McCoy surveys the woods as they walk. "It's too hard for Ma to keep up with now, even with help. Used to be much bigger but Granny donated most of the orchard to the town; they have machinery and workers to take proper care of it. They call it the POP – Peach Orchard Park. We'll go there tomorrow."

"Oh, you will, will you?" Julie's smile is sly, and her eyebrows are arched high. McCoy glares at her over Anon's head.

Anon, all innocent, replies, "I'd love to go there and see what a genuine peach orchard looks like." She sniffs the air. "Does it smell as good as these wild woods?"

"Indeed, it does, Ms. Soli," answers Joe. "The damp earth smells the same, but the fruit aroma permeates the air wherever you go. I met Julie through work, but I confess I can't say whether I fell in love with her at the office or at the POP first."

His smile is also sly, and Julie punches his arm before taking it affectionately.

Early afternoon is approaching when Julie excuses herself. "Ma must be overexcited, Ms. Soli, not to be calling us in for lunch. Snacks have run out, and I have to get the children a solid meal. You keep on walking. I'll, uh, I'll hustle the children back to the house, and catch up to y'all with a boxed lunch."

McCoy and Joe carry the conversational ball, identifying local shrubs and bird calls until they reach a tall wire fence.

"This is the perimeter of the POP," McCoy explains. "All peach trees beyond here. The entrance is on the road. Let's head back till we meet up with Julie."

Bare minutes pass before they encounter each other. Julie and McCoy exchange guarded looks, but all McCoy says is, "Let's not eat on the ground. Too many ants this time of year."

They each grab a packet of food – handmade and wrapped, not replicated – and hoist themselves into the low branches of the dwarf fruit trees.

McCoy watches Anon engaged in another wholly new experience, and he revels at her pleasure in the sights, sounds, textures, smells, and flavors of her boxed lunch in the trees. It is also a welcome distraction for him, so he need not strain to hear the low tones of Julie and Joe's intense conversation.

Lunch completed and deemed more than satisfactory, Julie, Joe, McCoy, and Anon amble out of the woods and through the gate to the yard again.

Julie pipes up with forced cheerfulness. "Let's pick up the kids and run home to get washed up. And we can grab the bread and pie I made for our supper at Ma's."

She has caught McCoy's attention, but all he can manage is "Oh?"

Joe picks up the thread; their quiet talk had had purpose and meaning. "You know Ma's traditional Southern hospitality. She promised a good home-cooked meal to celebrate your shore leave, Lenny, and she's not going to let you down. All your favorites, Len, so Julie says."

Julie has broken into a run that she awkwardly slows to a trot. "I'll get the young'uns. Alexi! JJ!" She enters the house, but her voice is still audible from outside. "Get yourselves home now. Gotta be presentable for supper, don't you know."

First JJ, then Alexi appears at the back door; they cross the yard and join their father. JJ raises his arms and Joe, on automatic, lifts him onto his shoulders. Anon watches the interactions silently, avoiding eye contact, nor does she look at the farmhouse. Julie exits at last, and strides wordlessly toward the road and home. The rest follow her.

Conversation is scarce during the half kilometer to the condo complex. The adults are physically tired, yes, but also fraught; the children pick up on the tension and it affects them, too. Anon contributes not at all to what limited talk there is; she is so closed off that McCoy fears she will drop into a meditative pose right there on the road, but she trudges along with them, matching their pace thanks to the O2 pack, too distant from McCoy for him even to take her hand.

As modern as the McCoy farmhouse is old-fashioned, the McCoy/Robinson unit is one of several dozen in their complex, comprised of three gracious red-brick buildings, and surrounded by acres of fields and shrubs, playgrounds and gazebos.

Theirs is the fourth floor of eight, in the westernmost building. Every unit in the complex is either a half-floor or an entire floor, and the dark-stained exterior architectural detail is unusual: bay windows with broad lintels, shutters carved with sunbursts. The transporter pod is in a sheltered kiosk at the edge of the road.

Anon stares at the complex as they approach, biting her lip. She stops in front of the kiosk. Joe sets JJ down, and both children bolt toward the enormous climbing apparatus on the east side of the complex, reluctantly returning when Julie makes extremely clear that playtime is over.

McCoy is midway between the road and the condo building before he realizes that Anon is no longer with the group. He ducks away from his sister's family to join her at the kiosk. He raises a questioning eyebrow at her as he nears, and she responds.

"I think I should go home and get washed up myself. You know. In my quarters."

"You think so?" This is one of the rare occasions when McCoy chooses his words carefully.

"I do. Julie's pretty angry, and it's because of me, so this would be a good time to make a safe exit."

McCoy's glad he was careful. "Dear heart, she's not angry with you. Not at all."

"I know she isn't. I didn't say she was. But I'm the reason, and your mother is angry with me, and you're angry with your mother because of me, and I don't understand it but I think I should go home. Everyone will stop being angry, and you can explain it to me later. It's okay."

Both McCoy and Anon are oblivious to their surroundings and don't see that Joe has taken the children inside and Julie is approaching them. McCoy seizes Anon's hands. "It's not okay, Soli, and I'm so sorry. It's really all my fault, and …"

"Land's sake, Lenny, my dear brother, it surely is your fault." Julie steps between the couple and the kiosk, cutting off that avenue of escape.

She then places one hand firmly on her brother's forearm and the other hand on Anon's, pressing gently. "Ms. Soli, please accept my apology for the lack of hospitality you have experienced today. I am deeply embarrassed and hope you can forgive my … forgive me. I'd so much like for you to visit my home, and of course you are more than welcome to refresh yourself. Then we can retire to the gazebo for some tea and biscuits. Later we'll return to my mother's house and we will eat supper, together."

She emphasizes the last word just enough for McCoy to raise that questioning eyebrow at her. "Together, yes, Lenny. Ma promised me. But first, please do come in to our humble abode, Ms. Soli. I would be honored."

So, Ma gave in, McCoy muses. How did Julie do it – sugar or vinegar? No matter right now; he awaits Anon's response, hoping for the best. She accepts reality, as she always inevitably does.

"Thank you so, so very much, Ms. Julie, for your, for your um, kind and, and generous invitation. I would be, I will be honored to visit your lovely home. Yes, thank you, please." Her words are awkward but sincere and convincing. McCoy drops Anon's right hand and firmly grips the left; Julie releases McCoy's arm and takes Anon's right hand. Thus joined, the three of them enter the McCoy/Robinson home.


	7. Chapter 7

**Section 2: Dance to the Music**

 **Chapter 3: Away, Away, My Heart's on Fire**

The remainder of the afternoon passes amicably. The men toss their shirts into the AC, and by the time they have each finished showering, their clothing is clean and fresh. McCoy pulls his shirt on again; Joe changes into something a little more formal for supper at his mother-in-law's. Anon declines the opportunity to strip, slipping instead into the bathroom for an extended period and reappearing adequately clean and groomed. McCoy makes a vague excuse for her seemingly hyper-modesty, which Julie accepts with only a brief eyeroll.

"No need to explain to me, Lenny. I'm the intragalactic social worker of the family, remember? People do all kinds of things for all kinds of reasons – it's not my affair, nor anyone else's."

Alexi and JJ have to wash up twice: once before they are allowed tea and biscuits, and the other after another round of Rocky Mountains/Tripping Hither, this time on the playground. Julie forbids their begging Anon to join in, but the ensign watches them closely while they sing and climb, and their pleasure is clearly mutual.

As for the iced tea, cold and refreshing, and the biscuits, served with a variety of homemade jams, Anon is in her element, especially on learning that Julie herself had baked the biscuits and cooked the jams. She peels the layers of a biscuit, thinner and thinner until they are translucent. She takes small spoonsful of each jam, inhaling their fragrance, holding them up to the light, spreading them over the biscuits, carefully nibbling on pulp and seeds when she finds any, rolling each bit around her mouth before swallowing. She concludes by announcing, "Another Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat!" Only McCoy knows where the phrase originated, but it elicits roars of laughter and agreement.

"Bless your heart, Ms. Soli!" Julie gushes. "You can be a guest at my table any old time. You make me feel like the goddess of the kitchen. I tell you what – tomorrow morning, bright and early, you and Lenny must join us for breakfast. Tonight, I'll get us set up to bake a couple loaves of sourdough bread together. It'll be such a pleasure." McCoy thinks his sister is laying it on a bit thick, but Anon beams.

"Bake bread? I've never done anything like that in my life. I can hardly wait. Thank you, Ms. Julie."

McCoy nods gratefully at Julie, and steels himself for supper at Ma's.

Seated around the ancient dining table, its oak surface battered but gleaming, extended with both leaves to accommodate their numbers, the family passes dishes and chows down and trades banter.

Mostly. The matriarch and the space alien sit quietly, seated far apart, while the children and grandchildren chatter and laugh, a little forced at times, but overall smoothly.

Anon had greeted McCoy's mother with a shaky, "Good evening, Ms. McCoy. Thank you for inviting me to supper." Shaky but without stammering – McCoy suspected that she had been practicing during her long isolation in the McCoy-Robinson bathroom. She did not extend her hand this time. For her part, Ma said, "Good evening, Ms. Andersen. Please come in." She didn't extend her hand either. One hurdle passed, McCoy thought, one times infinity to go.

Despite his and Julie's worst trepidations, they have gotten through dinner and are in the home stretch. Anon, having learned the rule of thems-that-cooks-don't-gotta-clean from her many times at her adoptive family's home, gathers plates and cutlery, bowls and cups, and brings them into the kitchen. Kim the dog, ever hopeful but never begging, no never, joins her.

McCoy hesitates but pushes his chair back and when the sounds of scraping and stacking begin he springs to his feet.

"Sit down, useless boy," Ma orders him. "You won't know where anything goes. I'll supervise the goings on in my own kitchen."

Is she joking or threatening? McCoy's internal alarm is blinking red and sirens shrieking, but he slowly sits down. "You just let me know if I can help, okay, Ma?" No response. He and Julie exchange worried glances but remain at the table.

In the kitchen, Ma watches Anon for a long, uncomfortable moment. Anon breaks the silence. "Is that the kitchen AC?" and she points to the likely appliance. "Mor likes to have dishes lined up just so. Do you have any preferences?"

"Everyone does," replies Ma, confusingly. "I'll load up the AC myself. Kim gets the scraps by the way. Her bowl is over there." Ma points with her foot, then passes by Anon to open the AC.

"Thank you, Ms. McCoy." Anon crosses to pick the dog's bowl off the floor, then stands, rotating the bowl in her hands.

Ma's look is one of contempt. "Put the dog's bowl in the sink. Scrape the orts into the bowl. Hand me the dishes. Give the dog her bowl. Clean the sink. Not so hard, is it?"

"No, Ms. McCoy, it is not. Thank you." Anon follows the instructions, but her hands are trembling as she attempts to pick up a plate to push the leavings into the dog's bowl.

"Give me that," Ma mutters. "You're going to break something the way you're going."

Anon quietly sets down the plate, clasps her hands together, shuffles backward.

Ma doesn't pick up the plate but regards Anon. "Tell me. What exactly are your designs on my son?"

Anon's eyes widen and she bites her lip before answering. "Well, I'm not sure what you mean, but I do love to talk to him. He's so interesting, you know. And I love to watch 2Ds with him – he has such a good sense of humor and we laugh at the same things – and we share music together. And I love to have sex with him. It makes him so happy. He's …"

"Whore! Tramp! Parasite!" Ma slaps Anon hard across the face. All hell breaks loose.

"Oh! Monster! You attacked me!" Ma bends double with pain, holding her cheek. "Get out of my house! Get out!"

Anon stands frozen for an instant. Then she intones, "Thank you so very much for the wonderful dinner, Ms. McCoy. Goodbye. Have a good evening." She runs out of the kitchen, the door slamming shut behind her.

Alexi and JJ are screaming. "Mama, it hurts. Papa, Papa!" McCoy, Julie, and Joe simultaneously gasped at the sharp blow they felt across their faces, but then Julie and Joe immediately thereafter turn, fumbling, to their children, who throw themselves into their arms.

McCoy shoves his chair back with such force that it tumbles over, and he storms into the kitchen rubbing his smarting cheek. Ma is rubbing her cheek as well, wailing even more than the children. "Leonard, what have you brought home! It attacked me, it hurt me! I told you …"

"Stop, Mother, just stop. I know damn well what happened. Where did she …" McCoy's question is answered by the golden glow of the transporter that penetrates the window curtains. He stomps outside anyway but can see Anon is already gone. He runs halfway to the kiosk before pausing. He can still hear his mother sobbing, although the children have quieted. His cheek is fine now; he knows of course he didn't actually experience the blow, but it felt real and his reaction was exaggerated by the tension he had experienced all day. He throws his arms up in surrender and turns back to the house.

McCoy put his mother to bed, and Joe has taken the children home. The McCoy siblings have finished cleaning the kitchen and are back at the table. McCoy with a postprandial whiskey, Julie with a sherry. Both are anticipating at least a second glass.

Julie starts the conversation. "First of all, Lenny, why are you still here? You should be with Soli."

McCoy swears under his breath and growls. "Because I know that as soon as she got to the Enterprise she went into a meditative state. It's what she does. She would have wanted to try to understand what happened and why and how. I can talk to her afterwards, whether or not she has had any insight, but, it doesn't work to talk to her when she needs to meditate. Trust me, I've tried, and it's no good."

"Fair enough." Julie sips her sherry, purses her lips, sips again. Now she feels free to speak her mind, and she has at it. Has at him.

"Why, Lenny, why? You could have told me. Hell, you could have told Ma. She wouldn't have behaved any better, I am quite sure, but you would have spared the rest of us. Especially Soli. She pretty obviously had no idea about Ma. What the hell were you thinking, if anything?"

McCoy turns his glass in his hands, shrinking before the scowl of his irate older sister. "I was thinking – and yes, Jules, I've thought about this constantly since I fell in love with her – I was thinking that if Ma heard nothing but wonderful things about her, that she would at least give her half a chance instead of rejecting her without even meeting her, which you know she would have done."

Julie nods her head and lifts her shoulders helplessly. Both take sips from their respective glasses, and Julie offers glumly, "But Ma's always been this way, Lenny, for as long as I can remember. She hates the Federation, she hates that my job frequently involves interspecies mediation, she was furious when you joined Starfleet. She forgave you, of course, but now …"

McCoy interrupts, "I know, I know. I was stupid. But honestly Jules, I've never seen her interact with a person of a different species. It was all theoretical from my point of view. I didn't believe she would be … like she was, in an actual encounter. Especially with Soli. I'm crazy about her. Now that you've met her, am I right or am I right?"

"Is that a multiple-choice question?" Julie sips delicately, sets down the glass, and reaches over to pat her brother on the arm. "She is adorable. She's an odd duck, but so are you, dear brother. And she loves and trusts you. Or at least she did. I don't know what the future holds."

"Shit." McCoy slams down the rest of his whiskey, reaches for the bottle, refills his glass. "I don't know the distant future but I do know short-term. Tomorrow morning, she'll break up with me. Again. She always does when there's a problem, whether big, small, or imaginary. Not because she wants to, mind you, but because she thinks it's better for me."

"Really." Julie tips her head and studies her brother. "I don't like it. It sounds manipulative. Who honestly thinks that way?"

"She does." McCoy pushes his glass away, puts his elbows on the table, and rests his chin on his clenched fists. Julie waits for him to gather his thoughts. She's good about that, he thinks, and he smiles at her reflexively. She smiles back, briefly.

"She does, Jules. She loves me. She wants me to be happy. If she thinks she's making me unhappy she's willing to step away. It's genuine. She's not human, she's not acculturated to human norms. Well, except for watching her romantic movies. But those more affect what she believes about what I think, not what she herself thinks. It can be pretty comical sometimes."

"A comedy of errors," Julie suggests.

"Sometimes," McCoy reflects. "But I have no doubt that she loves me and wants to be with me, so long as it makes me happy. I've never known a woman who felt that way about me."

"Hey!" Julie protests.

"Present company excluded," McCoy hastens to add. "But come on. It's not the same thing and you know that damn well!"

"I do, brother of mine." Julie laughs at him but promptly turns serious. "What are you not telling me?"

McCoy feels his cheeks burning, partly discomfiture, partly the whiskey. He doesn't answer, but Julie persists. "What happened between Ma and Soli that all of a sudden everybody was in pain and hollering? Does she have some sort of telepathic abilities? I've known several species that do. Was she striking Ma with it? Please tell me, Lenny. I know that you know."

McCoy is jolted by Julie's suggestion that Anon attacked their mother. "No, Julie, not at all! It wasn't Soli's fault, not at all! Not her fault! She didn't do anything to Ma or anyone else." McCoy pushes himself to a stand and begins pacing the room. "Julie, I can't talk about this. Only a handful of people aboard the Enterprise know, and even most of those few aren't supposed to. She … Never mind about that. But … to hell with it. You were affected, and I'm not going to lie to you. You have a right to know.

"Yes, you'd call it telepathy. She doesn't. She was raised by people with the same ability, and they all call it neural communication. What you felt was Ma slapping her, not her hitting Ma. Her telepathy is very strong when she touches or is touched by someone skin-to-skin. If she's not prepared, and there's no way she was prepared for Ma hitting her, everyone around, for twenty or thirty meters at least – left, right, above, below – feels what she feels, for better or worse. That's why she wears gloves, why she didn't want to take them off or any of her other clothes to get cleaned up at your place. Too risky."

Julie watches him thoughtfully as he walks, finally tries to follow up on his rant. "Does she …"

"Sorry, Jules," McCoy interrupts. "I really can't talk about it anymore. I trust you to keep it to yourself. Oh, I expect you'll tell Joe, but nobody else, okay? Please? Pretty please?"

Julie smiles at his lame attempt at humor and pacification.

"Sure, Lenny. It'll take some time to think this through. I mean, for her to be that strong a whole room away. The telepaths whom I know get and give only vague sensations with other people. Vulcans need time and touch to do their mind melds. The ramifications with Soli are pretty complicated. Wow. Lenny, how do you…"

"None of your damn business."

"Point taken, baby brother. Hey, let's toast to love and other foibles." McCoy laughs, bends down and kisses his sister on the forehead, and clicks glasses with her.

"I'll drink to that."

As McCoy had predicted, Anon is in her quarters. She had finished her meditation on the day's events, she had fallen into her coma-like sleep for the usual two hours, and now is plugged into her music console, earbuds jammed in tightly, keyboard unrolled, both listening and playing. A flashing light grabs her attention, and she unplugs herself, spinning around, seeing that someone is at the door.

"Come," she commands, and the door obediently slides open. "Simbolllah. Oh, my friend."

As Anon stands, Simbollah enters, and they embrace. Simbollah checks Anon's hands to be sure they are gloved; they are, so Simbollah takes her friend's hand and walks her over to her berth, the only place in the tiny room for two, and sits down with her. "What happened, Anon? I just got off shift or I would have come sooner. Your eyes were … and your cheek. Here, I brought you a cold pack. It looks like it's already bruising, but maybe it will help anyway."

Anon gracefully accepts the by-now useless cold pack and holds it to her cheek. Simbollah puts her arm around her and asks again, "What happened?"

Anon takes her time but eventually replies. "I am just not sure. I've been thinking and meditating and I did actually sleep, which a lot of times I can't do, well, once in a while I can't do when I'm upset, but I did anyway so that's good."

Anon leans her head on Simbollah's shoulder. The red shirt waits a bit longer before asking again. "What happened, Anon?"

Third time's the charm, so the cliché goes, and this is one of those times when it's accurate.

"Leonard's mother hated me. Immediately. She didn't even say hello. She didn't take my hand to shake it like I'd been practicing. You know."

"Yes, I know." Simbollah was at the other end of that extended hand enough times to be a witness. As she often does, she notes Anon's reference to Leonard instead of McCoy. Anon is the only person she knows in Starfleet who calls people by their first names and gets away with it. Only ever McCoy and Andersen, but still it is worth noting. Simbollah loves her friend for many reasons, and this is one of them. "You had practiced shaking hands with me. How did your greeting go?"

"Oh, I stammered a lot. I was so mad at myself but I always trip over my tongue so what can I do. I got it all out eventually."

"But she didn't even say hello." Simbollah echoes Anon's words.

Anon shook her head, still holding the cold pack to her face. "No. She told Leonard to go back to the house with her, and they had a big argument. I tried to ignore it but it was pretty loud and I played and sang with the children to drown it out and distract myself and everybody else but I still heard it."

"You played with the children? You met the rest of Dr. McCoy's family then?" Simbollah takes the cold pack from Anon's hand, refolds it, and gives it back. Anon reapplies it to her cheek.

"I did. I think they liked me. Actually, I think they loved me. They were wonderful to me." She smiles wistfully, then her face darkens. "But not his mother. She let me come for supper. She was trying to keep her promise to Leonard, and to Julie, that's his sister, really trying, I think. But after supper, when I was helping with cleanup, she asked me what my designs were on Leonard, and …"

"You're kidding. Your designs on him? I thought that was only in those old movies." SImbollah has straightened up. This is turning into a good story, worthy of a 2D.

"Yah, me too. I still don't get it. I didn't know what to say, so I told her how interesting Leonard is, and how much fun, and how I love to have sex with him, I thought she'd be really glad about all that. But she slapped me. Hard." Anon's nictitating membranes have covered her eyes, and her hand covers her cheek. She leans against her friend and draws a quavering breath. "Why does she hate me? Janay loved me and her family loves me. They adopted me. Leonard loves me…"

Anon's breadth and depth of knowledge of the sciences and the performing arts is so vast that Simbollah is always at a loss when her understanding of people is exposed as childlike in its limitations, binary in its possibilities. Everybody does this. A equals B therefore C.

Simbollah makes a valiant effort. "I've only had two serious boyfriends, Anon. You know, serious enough to meet their parents? The first meeting was a disaster; I was lucky that we broke up. The second went beautifully. The only reason I regret breaking up was that I still miss his parents. No lie. I loved them."

Anon laughs, then hiccoughs, and laughs some more.

"So anyway, one was awful, one was great. You never know. McCoy's was awful, but," she hastens to add, "that could change. Sounds like she didn't even give you a chance, so if she tries I'm sure she'll love you. But, Anon? Don't talk about sex with your boyfriend with his mother. Can't speak for other species, but not with human mothers. They don't want to hear it. Trust me on this."

"I do trust you but I don't understand. Everybody has sex. Mothers most obviously. Why wouldn't they want to know their children are happy with their partners?"

"Anon, they just don't. McCoy will always be her baby boy; you are the predator snatching him away."

Simbollah casts about for a way to wriggle out of this subject. "Look, I don't know! But you're better off with a mother like that than one who would pump you for details. In that case you'd want to run screaming in the opposite direction."

"Oh." Anon mulls this over. "Okay, got it. Thank you, my dear friend. You just keep saving me. When will I ever do something for you like you deserve?"

She hugs Simbollah hard, then resumes leaning against her. Suddenly she sits up straight.

"You said you just got off shift. You must be exhausted. Did you eat?"

Simbollah stretches and hops down from the berth. "Yes, yes, and not yet. I need a meal and a long kip as they say. Are you okay now? I can stay with you if you need me."

Anon rushes to the small cooler and peers inside, but it is empty. "I have nothing. I'm so sorry. Go, eat, rest. I love you so much. You're such a good friend."

"So are you, my dear. I'm looking forward to Shore Leave being over so we can get back to a normal schedule and our music again. Best thing in my life, honest and true."

Anon eyes her. "Not the very best, I hope. Get some sleep and you'll feel differently. I hope." She ritualistically kisses her gloved fingertips and touches Simbollah's forehead. Simbollah reciprocates and departs Anon's quarters.


	8. Chapter 8

**Section 2: Dance to the Music**

 **Chapter 4: Sumer is Icumen In**

After applying the concealer to her bruise, Anon picks up the O2 pack and clips it to her collar. She glances at her reflection, begins to move away, but turns back and studies the mirror's image.

"Huh."

She removes the pack and stuffs it back into its cubby, then unpins her hair and uses her fingers to pull it over her ears. She studies her image again, sighs, and sweeps her jammies into their drawer. She bangs the drawer closed with her hip, producing a low but decisive thump.

"Okay, then."

Anon sidles over to her computer, reaches for the play button, stops. She spins away and exits her quarters.

Rubbing his head vigorously isn't going to work this time. McCoy is slumped on the side of his bed and cannot will himself to stand. Could he have managed the introduction of Soli and his mother any worse? No, not possible.

He should have told Ma about Soli's species right away. She could have prepared herself to be polite at least. Yeah, right. He'd have given her lots of time to get all worked up, and she'd still have been unspeakably rude.

Well, he should definitely have warned Soli about his mother's irrational bigotry. She'd have had the opportunity to bow out gracefully if she so chose. Yeah, right. They'd be back in the morass of her conviction that he should not be with her, again offering to end their relationship. And his stupid request that she remove her O2 pack and leave her hair down, for the sake of the children. Pointless. Alexi and JJ adored her, whereas his mother of course wasn't fooled even for a moment. Then poor Soli grew breathless trying to keep up with the kids. Stupid and pointless.

The only question in his mind is whether he's a worse son than he is a boyfriend.

McCoy shakes his head and chuckles, finally stands. "All the lectures you ever gave her about the nature of relationships. You're a fool, McCoy. You and your whole three ex-relationships. Emphasis on ex." He pads over to his shoes and slips into them, hangs his tricorder around his neck. If he's going to meet Soli in the transporter room, he's got to get moving. Assuming she shows up at all.

McCoy shakes his head again. Soli Anon will show up. Not fair of him to think otherwise. And of course, after they meet up, she'll tell him they have to break up.

McCoy exits the lift, and spies Anon almost at the limit of his view along the curve of the corridor. He breaks into a trot and catches up with her. "Hey, Ensign." Anon starts, unsmiling. "What's up, Doc."

"You got my message."

"Meet, 0730, the transporter room. Yes."

They continue walking, side by side, eyes straight ahead. McCoy casts about for a safe topic.

"So. Bread."

"No. Dread."

McCoy halts. "That's very good."

Anon pauses and turns back. "What's very good? Oh. It was a rhyme. Almost a lyric. I seem to rhyme now all the time."

McCoy grins. "Maybe you can turn it into a song."

Anon smiles at last, "You know I don't have a head for composition. All I can do is steal melodies and plug in new words that fit the situation." She sings, "So. Bread. No. Dread. Dough. Fed. A little slower, and please keep your fingers curved and nice and high as you possibly can."

McCoy's grin broadens as he chortles, "I know that one! We watched it together! It's … Don't tell me! It's …"

Anon interjects. "It's a piano exercise that turns into a big fight between mother and daughter."

McCoy's face sobers. "That's appropriate, I'm sorry to say."

Anon's sudden intake of breath is audible. "No, it's not. I'm sorry. I didn't think. As usual."

McCoy searches for a side corridor and, pulling her with him, slips into a less trafficked area. Anon objects, "We're supposed to be at Julie's for breakfast. I don't want to be late."

McCoy draws her hands to his lips and kisses her fingertips, then steps back. "Soli, I have to tell you. I'm not going to Julie's. We'll beam down to her complex, and you go there for breakfast, but I'm going to my mother's, spend the day with her. She needs that."

Anon touches McCoy's tricorder. "You're going to examine her." A statement, not a question.

McCoy chuckles. "Yes'm, if I can. She wasn't … herself yesterday."

"Hmm, maybe." Anon pauses, plunges on. "Leonard, you know that I love you so much, but I think …"

"Stop. Just stop. I know what you think." McCoy sounds brusquer than he intended, but Anon retains her smile.

"How do you know what I think? We're not in each other's head right now." Her tone is almost teasing.

"You think what you always think when there's conflict. You think we should break it off, and you think it's for my benefit. You don't get to decide that for me. I want you with me. You get to decide if you want me with you. But you're not breaking up with me for my good, okay?" This time McCoy hopes he has managed to sound gentle, and he searches her face for a reaction.

"Okay, Leonard."

Anon's calm affect provides no help in reading her. Damn. McCoy steels himself to plow ahead anyway.

"Soli, why did my mother slap you?"

Anon backs up to the wall; her hand flies to her cheek. McCoy adds, "My face stung, and I felt outrage, which I'm assuming was hers, and I felt, I don't know, massive amounts of love and adoration? Was that you? So, what happened?"

Anon doesn't meet his eyes. She hides her hands behind her back, turns her face away.

"Not just outrage. Revulsion, too. It was my fault, Leonard. Simbollah explained that mothers can be sensitive about their children's sex lives but I didn't know and I won't ever mention it again and I'm so sorry…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold your horses, girl. Simbollah? Sex lives? What in tarnation are you talking about?" Why does everything in this complicated relationship immediately turn on its head?

Anon takes a deep breath. "Simbollah stopped by my quarters after her shift. She brought ice for the bruise."

"The bruise?" Anon turns her head to the right. McCoy scrutinizes her cheek. "I don't see a bruise."

Anon brightens. "Oh, good. I applied some of Janay's concealer. Anyway, Simbollah saw I was all upset when she beamed me aboard. Stupid third eyelid."

Okay, that's a start. Not too insane.

She continues, "I told her what happened. That your mother had wanted to know what my designs on you were …"

Oops, spoke too soon. Definitely insane.

"Your designs on me?"

"Yah. I didn't really understand, but in a 2D, it's never a nice thing to have designs on someone. So I told her all the things I love about you, and I know I kinda babbled, but then I got to how I love to have sex with you because it makes you so happy, and that's when … She called me some names that made no sense, and then … well, you know."

"I surely did know. Those poor kids."

"I heard Alexi and JJ crying, and your mother was screaming. Leonard, I thought she'd be glad I can make you happy," and Anon sang, "far from the home you love." She switched back to speech. "But she wasn't. I said thank you very much for dinner, then I said goodbye and left. I should've said good bye to everybody else, but …"

McCoy finally catches up to her narrative. "Ma slapped you and then you thanked her for dinner?" Maybe he hasn't quite caught up if that is the best he could do.

"Well, yah, it was delicious. And for seven people. Oh, Leonard, I am so sorry. I made an assumption that was based on not enough data points. Simbollah's experience implies that there's no better than a 50-50 chance your mother will love me. Based on Janay's family, my family, I thought it would be automatic. I should have stayed behind until you sounded the all clear."

Her statistical analysis does a poor job of covering Anon's pain. McCoy attempts to reassure her. "There's never going to be an all clear with Terrans. It's not predictable or consistent. But give her time. She will love you."

McCoy winces at this clammy fog of insincerity billowing out of him. Maybe Anon will miss it?

She doesn't. "Leonard, you're sweet to say that, but please don't say things you don't believe. Tell me something I can do to fix this. How did I mess up? I don't know what I did wrong, Leonard, but … did I say something unforgiveable? Maybe not the proper show of deference?"

McCoy casts about for the source of that phrase but comes up empty. Anon pleads, "Please tell me what it was. She was angry at me immediately, and it only got worse. What did I say? What did I do? Or not say or not do?"

McCoy once more draws her hands to his lips and kisses her fingertips, then enfolds her in his arms, careful not to make skin contact but aching to do so. Anon looks up at him, and he can see her third eyelids has engaged yet again. It's been a very rough time, he thinks.

"Dear heart, it was my fault. You were lovely and sweet and your show of deference was completely proper. Whatever that means. My mother … Ma is a bigot. She automatically thinks the worst of other species. I knew that but thought – well, I wanted to believe she would give you a chance. I was wrong. She …she just looks upon all non-humans, non-Earth humans, that is, with contempt. I know you haven't experienced that before so …"

His voice trails away; he is offering precious little comfort and can see no path forward that won't cripple one or more of the most important relationships he has.

Anon picks up the thread. "Oh, but I have. On Bolarus 9 they did their duty to me as a refugee. You know. But nobody made friends with me. Nobody ever took me home. I had music for company, later movies. Otherwise?"

She snorts, then shrugs. "The Bolians I've met in Starfleet are fine. I guess they'd have to be okay with other species; there is no other choice at the Academy or on a starship. So, if all I'd ever known were Starfleet Bolians I'd think all of them were welcoming and open. That was how I looked at Terrans. Now you say they're a lot like Bolians. Good to know. It helps a little, but I'm still really sad about it."

The clamminess envelopes his heart. "Soli, believe me, you were perfect yesterday. Ma has never been in favor of inter-species relationships. It was only theoretical to me before. I didn't tell her you were not Terran. I told her only wonderful things about you, and figured that once she met you, her theory would dissolve in the face of an actual person, in the fact of you. I was wrong. I'm so sorry, Soli, that she didn't, but she will come to love you when she comes to know you. I'm sure of it."

Anon doesn't immediately reply but studies his face. "Leonard, I hope she does. I'm not a fan of loving someone who doesn't love me back. Didn't work out well before. I do love her anyway. But Leonard, I think I need brush-up on self-defense. When she took a swing at me, I didn't even duck."

Despite the tension, McCoy has to chuckle. "I think you may have let your guard down, being confronted by a frail little 80-year-old lady after all."

Anon giggles. "Frail? Hah! If I had her lungs, I would never need my O2 pack."

Now McCoy roars with laughter. "You got that right. We do have to get going or we'll both be late. Lordy did I make a mistake not preparing you for this mess. Soli, dear heart, I'm deeply sorry. So much for the famous Southern hospitality. I'll see you at dinner. Hopefully with Ma and an apology."

McCoy and Anon transport to the street just outside Julie's complex, shrubbery sparkling in the early morning dew. McCoy turns to walk to his mother's; Anon takes just a single step towards Julie's and then freezes. McCoy glances back and is consumed with regrets. She told him she was dreading this day, and all he did was change the subject. Despite her outward equilibrium, the fierce rejection she experienced yesterday has clearly stuck with her.

He returns to her and sweeps her into his arms, kissing her hard on the lips, lingering with the pleasure of it. He feels Julie's surprised arousal and the children's confusion; when he senses the rising interest of two other people somewhere in the complex he finally pulls away. He realizes that he has slid his hands down her back and is pressing her hips close to him, and she is likewise pulling him against herself.

Briefly McCoy is paralyzed, staring into the middle distance. He finally rouses and shakes his head vigorously. "Fortify, Girl!" He grins and winks at Anon but cannot bring himself to release her.

Anon murmurs, "You never kissed me in public before! I liked it! Did you like it?"

"I did. I liked it a lot, Soli. It was different from the other time."

Anon looks up at him, assessing him. "No, it wasn't. You are different. The kiss, the connections, they were just the same. But the other time you hated the squatters and all. This time you liked them."

Good lord, what has happened? Their previous public kisses, which Anon had initiated, were disasters. Something has indeed changed in him. Was it all the research experiments in the shuttlecrafts? When did he go from reticence to readiness? He brushes off his thoughts. "We can talk about it later, darlin', when we go to the POP. Get in my head?"

 _Only to send, Leonard. I don't want to hear what you and your mother say to each other._ And with that, they both head to their respective destinations.

As he walks towards the family homestead, McCoy stumbles twice before he realizes he can't watch the bedlam at his sister's home and keep his footing as well. He forces himself to concentrate on the road, lifting his knees high and counting his steps, until Anon's visuals float to the background of his mind.

McCoy allows himself the luxury of deeply breathing in the heavy Georgia air. Only June, but hot and humid already. He has gotten soft, he realizes, living in the climate-controlled Enterprise. It would take longer than just yesterday and today to re-accustom himself, so he can expect a sweat-soaked shirt again. He wonders briefly how Anon is experiencing the heat but suppresses the thought. He needs to concentrate on his mother.

And there she is, standing on the porch with the dog, shielding her eyes from the early sun, clearly searching for him. McCoy raises his arm in greeting, and both his mother and the dog hurry towards him. By the time McCoy has reached the gate, the dog has begun stotting in excitement, and as he enters the yard, the dog gallops off to find a ball for him to throw. McCoy embraces his mother, the tricorder clunking between them.

"I'm so very happy to have you all to myself, Lenny," Mrs. McCoy enthuses, as though last night hadn't happened. McCoy offers his elbow, and his mother slips her hand in the crook. As they approach the house, McCoy suddenly has a rush of memory, one he had shared with Anon many months ago. His mother has lost a few centimeters to age, and he could well be escorting his grandmother as he did when he was a teenager.

"Show me around the gardens, Ma. We didn't get a chance to do that yesterday." She smiles up at him, and again he sees his grandmother.

"After breakfast, dear. I've got the bacon and grits cooking just the way you like them. You set yourself down, and I'll have all your favorites ready faster'n you can wink your eye. How long has it been since it was just the two of us? Never mind, doesn't matter. It's the perfect morning to eat out on the porch, watch the chickens, just like old times."

Just like old times, except for last night, which they are not talking about. And except that instead of dozing with his feet up, McCoy watches the goings-on at his sister's.

"Ms. Soli!" JJ and Alexi race each other to reach her and grab her arms. "Rocky mountains, rocky mountains," JJ bellows, yanking hard and sending all three of them stumbling towards the climbing set.

"Joseph Junior, hold your horses! Alexi, settle!" Julie's voice cuts through the yelling and is not to be questioned. "We went over this. Breakfast first, then bread making, then play, if Ms. Soli is up for it. Maybe she'd want to, oh I don't know, chat with me for a spell, not spend the entire day bouncing around the yard like an unbroke horse. And be your polite selves or there'll be no play whatsoever."

The children have calmed down during this speech, and make with their manners at last, lots of good-mornings and what-do-you-want-for-breakfasts and can-I-sit-next-to-yous.

"Are grits on the menu? Please?" Anon asks.

"Wouldn't be breakfast without grits, Ms. Soli! Do you like them?"

"I have no idea." Julie raises her eyebrows in puzzlement, and Anon hurries to clarify. "Leonard says he loves grits and has them every day, but we've never had breakfast together, and I haven't dared try them by myself. He says you have to fix them just so, and I didn't want to get it wrong."

"Figures he'd complicate grits. My brother can complicate a glass of milk. Ms. Soli, so long as you cook your grits soft and add plenty of butter, you'll always be fine. I'll pile them on your plate and you have at them. Eggs? Bacon? Fresh berries?"

Anon's eyes follow Julie's fluttering around the kitchen. So different from breakfast at the Andersen's. No horseplay and self-serve here – Anon has been steered to a chair and can only watch the mad efficiency that mothers of small children must master.

"Everything, please, if it's not too much. I want to try everything."

JJ scrambles onto the step stool next to the counter and snatches the bowl of blueberries. He hops down and races to the table, depositing the bowl hard, spilling a handful of berries on the floor. "I picked them myself, Ms. Soli! For you!"

"And now you can pick up and re-wash the ones you spilled," sighs Julie. JJ obediently begins to do so.

Not to be outdone by her little brother, Alexi pushes the vase of lilies and daisies toward Anon. "I picked the flowers for the table. Smell!" And Anon does, inhaling deeply, first with eyes shut tight, then looking closely, brushing her cheek against the petals, finally flicking her tongue over flowers and leaves.

"They are perfectly wonderful, Alexi," Anon smiles. "Now let me try those berries, JJ."

"Ms. Soli, why did you lick the flowers? They're for looking at, not eating." Alexi's brow furrows, and her mother pauses in her activities to take in the scene and Anon's reaction, as does McCoy at a distance.

"I want to know everything about the flowers you picked," Anon answers. "Not just colors and aroma, but textures and flavors. This way I'll remember them completely no matter how much time passes or how far away we are from each other."

Anon smiles at the girl, but Alexi persists. "What if they're poisonous? Some plants are poisonous, you know." Julie goes back to cooking, but continues listening, loving the earnestness, the self-confidence of her daughter's statements. Such a wonderful age.

"That's true," Anon admits. "But hardly any plants are dangerously toxic. Mostly toxic means it just tastes bad and could give you a tummy-ache. And anyway, I know you wouldn't give me poisonous flowers to smell, right?" Alexi glows with satisfaction.

"Berries!" JJ has had quite enough of being upstaged. Anon reaches into the bowl and pulls out a blueberry. She performs much the same ritual that she did with the flowers, eyes closed and smelling, then eyes open, rubbing the berry against her cheek and lips, licking the skin of it, finally popping it into her mouth. JJ grabs a berry and imitates her every move. He gulps the berry, coughing and choking as he shouts, "It's the best, Ms. Soli! And no poison at all!"

"Breathe deep, JJ, that's the boy!" Julie encourages, and Alexi takes advantage of her brother's discomfort to pound him on the back, which she continues well past the point of helpfulness. After all, when else can a big sister legally whack her little brother?

Anon pauses in her exploration of the blueberry to watch the antics of the children, but finally bites down on the berry in her mouth. Her eyes widen, and she chews the berry into pulp and juice, swirling it around, above, below her tongue, until finally she swallows it.

"Geezum's sakes!" Anon stands, then sits again and grasps the sides of the bowl of blueberries, staring at them worshipfully. "That was … I thought I'd eaten fresh blueberries on the Enterprise, but they were nothing like this. The softness and the juice and the seeds and the tartness and the sweetness. How did you do it?"

"We didn't do a thing, bless your heart. That's just how they grow. What in tarnation do they serve you on the Enterprise that they call a blueberry?" Now they have entered Julie's social worker bailiwick, the exploration of an alien's reaction to Terran culture. McCoy can see that Anon's gaze has locked on his sister's face, who is leaning over the stove but stealing glances at Anon.

"Well, I think they are rehydrated, and they taste good, for sure, but this is more than taste. This is, this is music for my mouth! May I have another?"

"Of course you may, Ms. Soli. Help yourself to as many as you want. Lenny says the food onboard is perfectly fine, but I always wondered why he eats like a starved refugee whenever he comes home. Rehydrated blueberries. Hmph."

Anon has taken another berry, and now delicately peels back the skin, picking at the interior. "Look at these teeny tiny seeds! So many of them. And Geezum's sake! Blueberries aren't blue at all inside – they're more a greenish-yellow."

McCoy finds himself stifling a laugh and choking back a sob. Andersen had teased Anon about her convoluted adoption of new expressions; finally, he is a witness to it. How much fun would Andersen have had with the absurd combination of "Geezum" and "Land's sake." He will not bring it up with Anon, that's for sure; the reminder of Janay would break her heart.

At last, Anon pops the berry in her mouth and takes her time relishing the flavor and texture. The children, too, attempt to peel the berries and hold them to their noses before eating them, but naturally more than a few berries, slimy as they are, squirt out of their fingers and across the floor.

Julie at this point removes all pans from the stove, utterly fascinated by her odd guest. Who would think there was this much to be discovered in a completely ordinary blueberry? She realizes all of a sudden that she is observing the woman her brother fell in love with. Sensuous and spontaneous, sharing her delight with new experiences, Anon drew him out of his shut-down self into her world.

Anon reaches for a third berry. "So, where are the bushes that produce these fabulous blueberries?"

As Anon nibbles on the berry, Julie explains, "There are community gardens as part of the complex. We have all kinds of fruits and vegetables all year, so long as we put in our time to help tend them."

"Sounds like 'A Girl's Garden!'" and Anon sings, "She says she thinks she planted one of all things but weeds.

"A hill each of potatoes,

"Radishes, lettuce peas.

"To-

"Matoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn, and even fruit trees."

She breaks off singing to exclaim, "I love how the composer did that! All the other verses end with 'dah-dum, dah-dum' but this verse he went 'dah-dum DIT dum,'" and she thrust her index finger high over her head on the "dit" before continuing, "I like to think it's because trees would be so much taller than anything else in a garden so he makes the notes go up much higher." She sings the selected bit thrice more, slicing the air with her fingertip each time, "Even fruit trees. Even fruit trees. Even fruit trees."

On the third go-round, the children join in, including the gestures. Unfortunately, JJ had climbed on top of his chair in order to make his finger thrust reach the highest of any of them, and he topples over when he makes the gesture. Anon reflexively grabs his torso and slides him back onto the seat, while Julie scolds him in the background.

"Sing the other verses!" Alexi cries.

"Manners," warns her mother.

"Please may you … "

"Please would you …"

"Please would you sing all the verses!" Alexi finally finishes.

"Rocky Mountains!" JJ insists. The boy with the one-track mind.

"I'm sorry, I mustn't," Anon answers, to a pair of disappointed wails and Julie's grateful look. "I'd want to accompany the song with my keyboard, and we're eating breakfast right now, not playing instruments. The keyboard would get all crumby and sticky and gooey, and then it would stop working. Can't have that."

As Julie removes the grits from the heat and swaps in the eggs, McCoy realizes his mother has brought the coffee, and drags himself from his sister's domestic activities.

"Thanks, Ma, let me just get a whiff of that first." He fairly mimics Anon in his deep inhalation, then queries his mother, "Moscowitz's cream?"

"Of course!" his mother beams. "They send their best greetings, by the way, along with the cream. I told them how you take your coffee black on board ship because you can't get their cream."

"And only Moscowitz will do." It's a familiar call and response, and he smiles back. She takes his face in her hands briefly, kisses his forehead. Her voice catches as she says, "Oh dear heart, how I've missed you." He's startled by her tenderness, but before he can respond she hurries back to the kitchen calling out, "Gotta check the grits and the sausages. Sausages from Moscowitz also, but my eggs, of course."

McCoy sips his perfect cuppa, the inviting shade of brown, sweetened just enough to balance the bitterness with the rich coffee flavor, Moscowitz's cream as the crowning glory. Maybe he is too stuck in his ways, as Julie often chides him, but lord he does love his coffee exactly like this. And, he realizes, only his mother prepares his coffee exactly like this.

Settling back and opening his mind again to Anon, McCoy once again joins the scene at his sister's home.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm for the aroma of bacon and eggs and all, but I'm thinking they'll have nothing on the blueberries. Tell me, are all fruits and vegetables on the Enterprise just rehydrated, Ms. Soli?" Julie inquires, then she adds for the benefit of the children, "That means they are completely dried out and flat for storage, then the replicator adds water to them to plump them up for eating."

"It is like that, yes, Ms. Julie," Anon confirms. "For diplomatic dinners, they do serve up the real thing, but that's for senior officers, not ensigns like me. The new crew reception is special, and they serve fresh fruits and vegetables, gourmet hors d'oevres, but last year when I was a newbie I was too nervous to eat. I'd have to be promoted to a leadership position, which will never happen, to go to that reception again, so I lost my only chance. Oh, well."

Julie is intrigued. "So where do they get fresh fruit to serve on the Enterprise for special occasions?"

Anon leans back in her chair and gazes into the middle distance. "All fresh fruits and vegetables come from the Enterprise's conservatory. My friend Mitchell – I mean Ms. Michelle, she's a botanist – she gave me a tour of the conservatory, and it took my breath away." JJ straightens up in his chair suddenly, eyes wide but unfocused. Alexi leans forward.

"It's so sparkly, Ms. Soli!" JJ exclaims.

"Yes, Master JJ. The lights reflect off all the glass, very intense."

"Ms. Soli, it smells like summer!" Alexi's eyes are closed, and she inhales deeply. At his mother's house, McCoy's heart lifts. Indeed, that is true. For all the many times he has strolled the conservatory, he has never made that intimate connection with his beloved Georgia summer. Now he will, always.

Anon turns her gaze on Alexi. "Is that what summer in Georgia smells like, Ms. Alexi? I'm so glad you told me that."

"Ms. Soli." Julie's voice slices through the chitchat. "Whatever it is you're doing, stop it now."

McCoy feels the immediate weight of Anon's dread, and he stiffens, clunking his coffee mug, both hands wrapped around it tightly, on the table before him. He can scarcely breathe. Damn, from bliss to agony in an instant. No wonder she prefers to cut him out of her emotional reactions.

"I don't … Oh! The conservatory? What … Okay."

The conservatory disappears from McCoy's head, and he is looking at his sister as he often saw her as a child: eyebrows drawn together, fierce. Only a moment, then her brow is smooth. Quickly the view is clouded – Anon's nictitating membranes have kicked in.

"Children." Julie's voice is preternaturally calm. "Please go to the gardens and fetch some raspberries for Ms. Soli. There should be some in season, and she did enjoy the blueberries so very much."

"Oh, Mama, do I have to …?" The children are disoriented from the neural back-and-forth.

"That was not a request, children."

Alexi sighs and helps her brother down from his chair. "Come on, JJ. Mama needs grown-up time with Ms. Soli. You know." She takes the basket from her mother and ushers her brother through the door, glancing back anxiously, but obeying.

McCoy is still fighting off despair when Anon says, "I'm sorry I angered you, Ms. Julie. I'll go now. Thank you for the delicious breakfast, really it was incredible …"

McCoy feels her agitation throughout his body, but all he can see, still clouded over, are her hands, clutched in her lap, tendons bulging. McCoy stands, unsteady, determined to get to Julie's complex, somehow, to intervene, somehow. Dammit, he doesn't even understand what has happened, but he feels he must do something.

Julie declares, "Don't you even think of going, Ms. Soli! Imagine! Breakfast with Julie McCoy consists of three blueberries and the smell of bacon? I'd never live it down. We need to talk is all."

Mentally thanking his sister, McCoy collapses back into his seat. He blindly gropes for his coffee cup again as he listens and watches through Anon. Julie's face is soft, her voice encouraging.

"Lenny gave me an idea of your telepathy – he called it neural communication – but I must have misunderstood. I thought you had to touch someone. Just now you were transmitting something to the children, yes? A view of the conservatory? No, more than that. Alexi could smell it. You should not have done that without my permission. I think you understand that now."

No response. McCoy realizes that Anon understands nothing, and is now hit by a new, powerful emotion. My god, she is angry. I've never known her angry. Once more he struggles to rise, but the tension in his muscles freezes him. Anon growls, "I knew I shouldn't have come, Leonard. I cannot do this! I always make a hash of everything."

Julie whirls around, searching. "Lenny? He's not … Whoa, Nellie! What's going on? You're talking to Lenny?" Julie's normal serenity has forsaken her.

McCoy feels Anon's struggle to regain control of her emotions. When she succeeds, Anon confronts Julie, "No, Ms. Julie, I do not understand. I so want to, but I probably never will. I don't know anything about families, except that families love and stand up for each other. I don't know anything about children, except that every child must be nurtured by everybody, When JJ fell, you did not say I needed your permission to catch him. I don't … I can't …" Anon runs out of steam.

"Every child must be nurtured by everybody," Julie mulls. "I never heard that expression before."

Anon shrugs a long shrug and her hands clutch each other.

Julie tries again. "That's not a Bolian saying."

Anon shrugs again. "No. It's just true."

Julie gazes thoughtfully at Anon, reaches out to grasp Anon's gloved hands, but Anon jerks them away. Julie persists, and this time Anon, with a gasp and with stiff posture, allows the contact. ""We do need that grown-up talk, Ms. Soli," Julie encourages. She pulls up a chair and sits next to her, "Lenny told me you're a geologist. Did he tell you about my work?"

Anon twitches at the change of subject, once more pulling her hands into her lap. Warily she responds, "He said you're a social worker. He said that means you help people make their way in the world."

Julie smiles. "Yes, that's right. It's a sweet way of explaining it. My specialty is helping different species understand each other's ways in their own worlds, when they need to get along in the same world. I'm thinking you and I can understand each other, too. I confess, this is the first time I have tried to find common ground when I was one of the players."

The silence that follows is prolonged; eventually Julie rises and crosses the room, pushes the slider button that opens the window, and calls out, "Alexi? Be sure to wash the berries under the sill cock before you bring them inside." A faint "Yes, Mama" is heard, and Julie turns back to Anon who promptly changes the subject. "What's a sill cock?"

Julie answers, "An outside faucet," but doesn't lose her focus and tries again. "After I got home last night, I tried to look you up, look up your species. Not a lot there. Lenny told me you're the only known member, but I thought it might be possible to glean something about your people. Just the obvious fact that you don't speak or behave like a Bolian, despite being raised there, tells me your own nature is solid and intact."

Anon breaks her silence. "You're very kind, Ms. Julie, but I'm not your client, so where can this go? I've gotten so many people so mad at me over what I thought was normal, but, geezum, wrong, wrong. Janay and I loved each other, so of course I loved her family even before I met them. They loved me right away, too. I loved Leonard's whole family as soon as I loved him, and I figured … well …"

"You thought we'd all love you back right away," Julie finished for her.

"Yah. Plus, Janay's family, my family, didn't mind about my getting in my nephew's head after I explained. That's the main thing about my nature, Ms. Julie, the neural communication, and it's physiological, not sociological."

"Well, then, explain. Tell me about that, Ms. Soli." Julie persists, and she rises to pour each of them a glass of peach juice as she speaks. "I know it can happen through touch – oh, and I could kill my mother for that – but you jumped right into my kids' heads just as natural as a cat jumping into a lap."

She places one glass in front of Anon, seats herself and sips from the other. "Not fresh but still good. A local favorite. Try it. If you wanted to show them a conservatory, the computer's right over there. And why not show me as well?"

This will never work, McCoy thinks to himself. She'll shut down from the questions, figure out an excuse to leave, and it'll be all over. But he has underestimated the effectiveness of his sister's disarming approach.

Anon sips at her juice, sips again. "Mm, this is good, thank you Ms. Julie."

A third swallow and she is done and sets the glass down on the table. "The computer can really only project what it looks like. I wanted them to have all the sensations of being in the conservatory, the humidity, the crazy mixture of scents. I loved that JJ was enchanted by all the reflections, I didn't expect that. And 'smells like summer.' It was thrilling to experience their reactions." Anon's voice has grown stronger and more confident, but now she pauses, looks at Julie, and shrinks back. "It did feel natural, Ms. Julie, although I don't know anything about cats. I'm sorry I made you angry."

Julie has finished her juice as well and is now thoughtfully turning her glass round and round in her hands. It's her turn for silence, and Anon's to fill up the space.

"I didn't share it with you because you would have hated the feeling. But by accident, with my little nephew two days ago, I realized he didn't hate it; I thought maybe it's because he's young. So yesterday I reached out to your children, and they were fine, too; they responded, and I loved sharing with them."

Julie sits up straight and stops playing with her glass. "It felt right to you because that's how adults of your species teach and socialize children. What could be more normal than to expose children to your experiences outside of their own? I can't imagine a stronger imperative than that. And why would you feel the need to ask me? Why would you think I might object?"

Anon has taken to playing with her own glass, rapping its edge on the tabletop rhythmically. "Huh. Interesting. This is exactly how you described your work. I like your idea very much. You even seem to believe it."

Julie grins, "I do believe it, yes, ma'am. On earth, mothers sing to their babies. It's universal. On your home, all parents neurally connect to their babies. It must be as cozy as a lullaby."

She shakes her head, black curls bouncing. "And to your earlier point, it would be sociological as well as physiological. I do think you should ask permission, but that's my nature. Objectively, I know it's not fair – like expecting someone not to explain a new word or concept to a child. Hell's bells, I threw in what rehydration was about, and I didn't think twice."

Anon places her glass back down, looks wide-eyed at Julie. "I'm confused. Are you still angry about, you know, jumping into your kids' heads?"

"Honestly? Not sure. Confused like you, feels like. Ms. Soli, just to satisfy my own curiosity, would you project the conservatory into my mind? Even if I hate it, I want at least to know what it's like."

Anon springs to her feet and begins pacing, flapping her hands. "I don't … Please no, Ms. Julie, everybody hates it. I don't want you to hate it and hate me as well."

"I take responsibility for myself here, Ms. Soli," Julie encourages. "It can't be any worse than the slap."

Anon stiffens and stops pacing. A deep sigh escapes her. "You don't know that. But I can see you're not going to let it go. Okay. Here's the conservatory."

It takes only an instant for Julie to start shrieking. "Stop it, please stop it! Oh, it's gone. Ow. What the … That was you!" Julie gasps as her head clears.

"Yes, of course it was me. You'll be fine, Ms. Julie, just wait a bit."

"No, no, not right now. That was you, I don't know, six or eight months ago. There was an awful feeling in my head, like someone screaming, dying of loneliness, and it felt like that. It only lasted a few seconds, but I'll never forget it. That was you, wasn't it?" Julie has slowly backed away from Anon during this frenzy. Anon looks about wildly, as though seeking a trap door to fall through.

"Mama? We have the raspberries. They're all clean. JJ picked two that weren't ripe, and he scratched his arm, and I scratched my leg. Can I have a bandaid?" The children are at the door, anxious at witnessing their mother's outburst.

As the children enter, Julie murmurs, "May I have … "

"May I have a bandaid?" Alexi chirps.

"Of course. JJ, let me kiss that scratch, make it all better." JJ crosses the room, holding out his arm, and the tension is submerged for the moment. "Berries look lovely, even the unripe ones." JJ beams, sticks out his tongue at his sister. "Now, now, none of that. Let's serve up and eat this delicious breakfast."


	9. Chapter 9

**Section 2: Dance to the Music**

 **Chapter 5: Strange Fruit**

Suddenly McCoy realizes his mother is shaking his shoulder and has been calling his name for quite some time. He pulls back from the drama down the street, and, still stunned, stares at her blankly.

"Here I finally have you to myself, but you're a thousand kilometers away." Ma, pole-straight, turns and sits opposite McCoy.

"Not that far." McCoy protests. "Only a thousand meters." He attempts to disarm her with a grin, and it works, as always. She smiles back, briefly, then allows her shoulders to slump as she appraises him.

"You've hardly touched your breakfast. Letting your eggs get cold is a sin against humanity. Or at least against my cooking."

McCoy quickly lifts a forkful of grits and eggs to his mouth, and says as he gulps it down, "Where's your plate? You should be joining me."

"Not hungry. My appetite has become miniscule as I've gotten older. Maybe later, who knows."

"Well then, how about the annual agricultural report, Ma? I've been on pins and needles waiting for it."

"Hah. Of course, you have." But it's a nice, neutral conversational topic, so Ma begins the familiar litany, egg production, goat cheese processed (augmented by an analysis of the effect of outsourcing to Moscowitz, new this year due to conceding to McCoy's urging that she do so), comparison of this year's projected fruit and jam output to last year's actual output, progress of the vegetable plantings.

As her eyes alight on the chicken coop, goat pen, fruit trees, and garden plot in turn, McCoy steals glances at her. Reciting her "report" relaxes her to the extent that her shoulders slump more. Not like previous years, where she became more erect. Her eyes are puffy, red-rimmed; she has been crying, McCoy realizes. She who never cries. No wonder she's not hungry. McCoy curses himself once more.

Ma concludes with, "… and of course the peas and the spring greens are beat, but the corn's rising fast. It loves this heat. Thus, ends the Annual McCoy Agricultural Report. And it looks like you've done justice to your breakfast."

McCoy stares at his plate; Indeed, it is empty, but he has no recollection of eating it.

"It was perfect, as always," he lies. "Ready for the Inspection of the Grounds?"

"No. I'm a bit tired. Just want to set a spell."

Now the conversation, such as it is, dies. They make eye contact; Ma straightens her back and lifts her chin. McCoy, as is only right, starts the ball rolling.

"Ma, I'm so sorry I sandbagged you yesterday."

"Sandbagged me? More like whumping me upside the head after six months of deceit. Lenny, dear, you strung me along with tales about this wonderful, perfect woman, and it turns out not to be a woman at all. How exactly did you think I was going to react?"

"Like a gracious Southern hostess, same as you always are with your guests. Ma, let me explain …"

"Don't bother. I saw its ears. And I heard every word you said to your sister last night about its mind distortions." Ma's accusations sting, McCoy pauses a moment to process them.

"Wait a minute. You took to your bed with a case of the vapors. You were spying on me and Julie?"

"Of course I was spying on you! What kind of a mother do you take me for!"

The corners of her mouth try hard not to smile. McCoy stands and strides to the edge of the porch, looks without seeing. Now it's easy now to push aside Anon's visuals from down the street. He turns and faces his mother with his hands outstretched; she has turned in her chair to follow his path but does not react to his imploring stance. McCoy drops his arms.

"If you listened to our conversation, then you know how much Soli and I love each other. You …"

Ma interrupts, "Like the dog and I love each other. Yes, I know." The brief light she offered has been swallowed behind her now pursed lips. "Kim and I love each other as well as two species can; that's all. She's a fine companion, for a dog. I'm sure you and … and it feel the same way."

If she's trying to rile him, she's succeeding. McCoy scowls, "If you can call the dog a 'she' you can damn well call Soli a 'she.' She's a lovely, loving person with many gifts, with friends and admirers of many species. And she loves me, and because she loves me she even loves you, whether you deserve it or not. Whether we deserve it or not. And she is as much a woman as you and Julie, for crissakes."

Ma rises, and her voice quavers. "Oh, I'm quite sure she is, Leonard. It disgusts me. It truly does. That you should be banging some … some …"

"Stop it!" McCoy has lost it and takes a deep breath, then another. "Just stop, Mother. You haven't the right."

"I haven't the right?!" Ma hisses. "You're wasting your … your … yourself with no possibility of children. I do have the right to wish for grandchildren. Different species almost never produce offspring. You know this, Leonard. I …"

"Almost is not never, Mother. You know this!" McCoy has gone off again. "By laws of genetics, none of the species crosses should produce children. Yet some do! And if you were paying any attention …"

"Don't insult me with a biology lecture, Leonard! I'm proud of my career and accomplishments. I sang you to sleep with my own ATGC lullabies. I have kept up in my field, even since retirement, and nothing I've seen has changed my mind about this."

"Earth-focused research, sure. Maybe you should keep up with Starfleet research for once, instead of rejecting it out of hand! My god, Mother, this is my career, my realm. Your viewpoint on species is as cracked as the old views on race! Is that why you retired – to avoid everything that shows you were wrong?" McCoy suddenly becomes aware that his mother's temples are blotchy and her eyes are welling up. He breathes in sharply, as his mother sinks into her chair, her tears finally overflowing.

"I retired to take care of my grandchildren, when they were babies. Now they're older I hardly see them. I've been too long away to resume my work. I tried. I told you I tried. If you were paying any attention …"

McCoy has never seen his mother weep. He crouches next to her, taking her face in his hands, wiping the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, finally embracing her. "Ma, I'm so sorry I made you cry. You're right. I haven't been paying attention. I've been dead lonely for so many years, but I never thought about where you are. Running the farm compared to teaching university. It's … I'm sorry."

"S'okay, dear." Ma's sobs have slowed to ragged breaths. "Been a long time coming."

McCoy's engagement is complete at last. "You've been saying for years that your friends have been moving away. Now you're telling me you don't see Julie as often as you need to. Who do you turn to for company?"

"Oh, pshaw, company." Ma snorts. "Ladies from church, don't know paint from floor wax. Only saving grace is they agree with me about alien influences, but for all the wrong reasons." She clutches him, heaves one more sigh, then straightens up in her chair, daubs at her eyes with a napkin. McCoy, allowing a concession to her dignity, stands and picks up his coffee cup. "I'm going for a refill. Can I get you some?"

"Yes, Lenny, dear. You know how I like it."

He does remember how she likes her coffee, and takes his time preparing both cups, using that time to reflect on what has happened, both in the moment and over the course of years. He has taken his mother's love and support for granted, to the extent that he was incapable of considering her lifelong beliefs into account, except as something to skirt. Can't do that anymore, no sir.

McCoy thinks back on the last year, the joy he has found in his relationship with Anon. During the months that they were unable to have a physical relationship, he nevertheless came to treasure their time together. Why? Because she listened, truly listened to him, encouraged his ideas, guided his thought process with insightful questions. In contrast, he has struggled to learn anything about her, partly because of her secretive nature, but also because, frankly, he'd rather expound than listen. He's out of practice.

And now here he is, with his mother almost a stranger to him. Time to listen, not argue, not persuade. Agreeing for the wrong reasons. That's what she said about the church ladies, and that's a good place to start. He returns to the porch with the coffee, and sees his mother is still tense but composed. Okay.

Ma reaches out for her cup, inhales the aroma, and takes a small sip. "Mm, thanks, Lenny, dear. It's perfect."

McCoy settles himself in his own familiar chair. "Good to know one thing I did is perfect. I surely have not been a perfect son, not by any measure."

Ma does not argue the point, says nothing, in fact, just sips again from her cup, eyes locked on McCoy.

McCoy sips and swallows. "I wish I could fix my own coffee perfectly. You're the only one who can."

Ma laughs, but again does not argue. McCoy takes the plunge.

"Ma, you said it's been a long time coming. How long?"

It's the right question. "Oh, Lenny. Learning what I've learned, feeling how I do, over the breadth and depth of my life, my entire life, Julie labors to help aliens feel at home here on earth, you go to space to live and work with them. I've felt pushed away from the both of you. How long? Too long. Of course, neither of you needed my permission to follow your passions. I just didn't expect your passions to tear you away from me. From how you were raised."

Pretending to enjoy the coffee provides McCoy time to contemplate his mother's words and compose his response. His eyes wander to the backyard where the chickens scratch and peck at the ground, an activity ancient as when birds were dinosaurs. Often that concept relaxes him, gives him perspective. Not today, though. He sighs.

"I didn't go into Starfleet to push you away. More to escape my failures. I can't speak for Julie, but I'm pretty confident she followed her heart, and it led to work full of love and reconciliation. That's her passion, her career, and she's damn good at it."

Ma toys with her coffee cup before responding. "I'm sure she is. But I can't know for a fact. She and I can't discuss it. I want them gone; she wants them here. I wish them only misery so they'll leave; she wants them happy so they'll stay. We have nothing to talk about. Then yesterday you brought one of them into my home." She falls silent.

"And here we are." McCoy sips his coffee and looks out at his beloved homeland. A black vulture soars overhead, seeking carrion. Perfect, just perfect.

"Yes. Here we are." Ma sets her cup down firmly and stands. "Let's do that Inspection of the Grounds. And then I really need to lie down."

McCoy stands and offers his arm to his mother, who takes it and accompanies him across the porch and into the yard, formal and precise, as distant as when he was in space. Yet she absently pats his forearm as he carries the conversational ball – the good condition of the chicken coop, the missing shingles on the shed that he promises to replace that afternoon, muddling through the first verse of the opening number of "Oklahoma." That last even brings a chuckle at his well-intentioned efforts.

"Haven't heard you sing since you were a child, Lenny." She smiles up at him. "What brought that on?"

Of course, it was Anon who exposed him to that musical. And to a dozen or more movies chock-full of songs and orchestrations. But to invoke her name would shatter the calm veneer, so McCoy says merely, "Just came to mind, I guess."

When they have completed the circuit, McCoy feels Ma leaning on him for support as they enter the house, but she refuses any assistance to climb the stairs to her room. "I'm fine, Lenny, dear. And don't you touch the dishes; I'll take care of clean-up when I'm rested." He bends down, she kisses his cheek, and she mounts the stairs, slowly but steadily.

McCoy ignores her admonition. He cleans up from breakfast, starts a new pot of coffee brewing, and with a neural communication headache also brewing, he stumps outside to repair the shed, by which time the bread-making has begun at his sister's home.

"All right, here we go!" The counter has been cleared of all food, plates, and detritus, and re-cluttered by canisters, bowls, and utensils. Julie pulls a large bowl from the fridge, sets it down, and whips off the cloth towel that had been covering it. She glances at Anon, who has a dead-serious expression on her face as she scrutinizes the bowl and its contents.

"Land's sakes, Ms. Soli. It's just a bowl of bread dough. Sourdough sponge to be exact. It won't be dough until we add the rest of the flour. This will be an adventure if you've never baked before, and sourdough bread is very forgiving. Not to mention, we're only doing the final stages today – last rising and the baking."

"I do love adventures, Ms. Julie," Anon replies, leaning to get a better look. "But, please, what makes the dough sour? What do you mean it's 'forgiving?' Tell me about the initial stages. If it's not a bother."

Julie beams. Like her brother, she enjoys the type of focused attention Anon brings to bear.

"Most breads are either unleavened, which means they're flat after baking, or leavened, which means they have some means to create gases that swell the dough to lighten the texture. With sourdough bread, what makes the gases are bacteria, descended from a starter dough from hundreds of years ago, that eat up the flour and sugar we provide and make gases as part of the digestive process."

"Boring," sighs Alexi, and JJ crosses his arms on the counter and thumps his head upon them for emphasis.

"Fascinating!" Anon exclaims. "We make gases as part of our digestive processes, too, but nobody would want to bake with them!" Alexi dissolves in hysterics and makes fart noises. "Thbppt! Pffft!" JJ joins in. "Ppppt! Stinky Ew!"

Julie watches the scene in bewilderment until Anon, her face fixed in a slight smile, winks broadly at her and murmurs, "I didn't even need to get into their heads for that one."

Suddenly Julie is drawn back to her childhood. She wasn't making bread with her mother at Alexi's age. Not at all. At this age Ma shooed her and her brother outside, under the care and direction of their grandmother. She and Lenny traipsed about the yard, about the countryside, finding interesting critters and learning to identify wildflowers. It wasn't until her sixth – no, her seventh – year of school, in a chemistry class, that she first participated in her mother's baking.

The particular unit of study focused on food chemistry. The memory floods her; she was so proud of her mother. The teacher asked the class whether anyone had ever had home-baked bread; Julie alone raised her hand. Teacher asked what kind of bread; Julie offered, "Fresh?" One of the children giggled in derision; Teacher – what was his name? – pointedly asked if that student could name any bread varieties. Of course, the answer was no. The teacher asked Julie to bring in some fresh bread for the class to sample but insisting that she know exactly how the bread was baked before doing so.

That evening, Ma eagerly agreed to work with Julie to prepare a variety of breads. The next day, Lenny went out with their grandmother by himself – which turned out for the best, his love of critters far exceeding Julie's – and she baked and baked and baked with her mother. Short bread, biscuits, yeast bread, sourdough bread, a backpack-full to bring to class and duly impress her classmates and her teacher. Wilcox, that was his name. No, she wasn't Alexi's age; she was considerably older, and due to the circumstances, she was eager to attain her mother's prowess.

Light dawns on Marblehead. At Alexi's age, Ma shooed her and Lenny outside to have fun. Well, then. Let them have fun.

With a whoop, Julie strong-arms JJ, and presses her mouth to his belly, blowing wetly and loudly. "Pfft, pfft!" JJ squeals in delight, and both children laugh until they are clutching their sides, at which point Julie resumes her instructive role.

"To continue," she says pointedly, and the children take their places, but attentive and bright-eyed now, "the initial stages involve feeding the little bacteria and giving them time to reproduce and fill the dough starter with gas bubbles. It's forgiving, because you can have time gaps and temperature changes that would destroy the chemical reactions of some baked goods, but our little bacterial friends are tolerant of a wide range of conditions. Yeast, on the other hand, is a fungus that also leavens bread but has a narrower range of environments that make it happy."

"Forgiving bacteria. Happy fungi. I like the way you anthropomorphize the little creatures, Ms. Julie."

Julie laughs. "When Ma taught me to bake, she talked like they were my friends, and it's stuck with me. And although I like yeast bread, the flavor of sourdough is very special, plus the parentage of the bacteria is so ancient, and of course, forgiveness is such a valuable asset. So. Anyway. I'll split the sponge in half, and you can follow my lead to add the flour and whatnot to prepare for the final rising." As she speaks, Julie digs her thumbs into the round mound of sponge in the bowl, separates it into two roughly same-sized pieces, and plops one side of the mound into the bowl in front of Anon.

Julie glances at Anon, sees that she is rapt, gaze flickering from each of the bowls of dough to Julie's face, waiting for the next step.

"The sponge has already risen since yesterday. Now we fold in and knead in the last of the flour to engorge our little friends for the final rising and turn it into dough. I'm going to use only one hand, in case I need to have a clean hand for, I don't know, grabbing a child or punching the computer." Julie measures the flour, and sprinkles a layer on top of the dough, then folds the edges in, massages the mound, and repeats the process methodically, one hand free and clean, the other floury and rhythmic. Anon watches closely, nodding, but makes no move to imitate the actions.

Abruptly Anon seizes and lifts her sponge with both hands, and brings it to her nose and mouth, inhaling deeply, then pressing it into her face. She tilts her head back and pulls her hands away, causing the sponge to flow, like a flood of smooth, cool lava, down over her chin and onto her chest. Alexi shrieks in glee, and JJ cries out, "Me, too, me, too!"

Anon stares at her hands, and then at Julie. "What have I done! I look like the creature from the beige lagoon. I didn't realize it was this gloopy! I've ruined it!" She tries to scoop and scrape the glop from her clothes, hands, face, and from the counter, depositing it back in the bowl, more or less. Mostly less.

After a moment's shocked silence, Julie bursts into great guffawing laughter, then rinses her gooey hand at the sink and fetches a wet towel. "What in tarnation were you doing, Ms. Soli! Smelling the sponge?"

"Kind of," Anon nods, taking the towel gratefully and wiping her face and gloved hands. "You said the bacteria gave out gases, and I wondered whether they had a sour aroma or taste, and I wondered if I could distinguish the bacteria on their own, and I wanted to get the smell and flavor before they were baked in, if possible, and … and I just didn't think past that. Everyone at some point chides me for being impulsive; I guess it's your turn now."

Julie takes in the mess, the children dipping their hands in the sponge, making drippy, doughy beards on their chins, piling it on the counter and stretching the blobs into pyramids that promptly sink back into blobs again, and Anon's hangdog appearance during all of it.

"I tell you what," Julie declares. "Y'all play with your sponge, as much as you want, make it into weird shapes, however it turns out. I'll make my loaf, and we'll cook everything up, see what happens, Okay?"

Alexi and JJ shout their approval; Anon nods, eyes still downcast, wearing a scarlet "E" for Embarrassment upon her breast.

"Hey, Ms. Soli." Julie's tone is gentle and coaxing, and Anon looks at her briefly, then averts her eyes again.

"Hey, Ms. Soli," Julie repeats. "Nobody in the history of the world has ever had this much fun making bread. I'm so glad you made it special. Land's sakes, we'll be telling the tale of this day to our great-grandchildren, don't you know."

As Julie starts to fold in the last of the flour to her sponge for its final rise, she yells over the racket, "Computer, call Ma … no, cancel that, call Lenny."

"Lordy, lordy. I can't breathe. Hold on there, Julie." It's McCoy, gasping and chortling. "My eyes are watering, and I hit my thumb with the hammer, and Lord, I don't remember last time I laughed so hard."

Julie arches her eyebrows and glances at Anon. "You showed him the whole bread and circuses?"

Anon nods again, but now the corners of her mouth turn up. "Yah."

McCoy is back. "Whoo-boy. Okay. Glad you called me, Jules. Ma is napping. What can I do you for?"

"I need to get some more fed sourdough starter from Ma when y'all come over – we'll be eating one loaf with supper this evening, and I always make a second loaf to send with your Care Package, but as I guess you know, there will only be one tonight. I should be able to throw together another before you ship out tomorrow, and I'll add it to the rest of the goodies then."

McCoy tries to keep his tone light. "I'm not sure she's up for coming, but I'll bring whatever you need."

Julie glances at Anon, whose smile has vanished.

"That will be fine, Lenny. Thanks so much."

"You are most welcome, Julie. And Soli? Can you break off the communication now? You seem to be doing just great, and I've had the headache for hours. It's been an extra-long connection today."

Anon nods as she responds, "Of course, Leonard. I'm sorry. I should have paid closer attention to the time. I should have asked how you were doing. I'm so very sorry, my love."

Julie cannot discern any difference in Anon's demeanor, but she knows the neural communication with her brother has ended when McCoy says, "Thanks, Darlin' – not your fault. I asked for it. See you soon."

McCoy sucks on his sore thumb while he steels himself to finish his task. No more distractions now. Gingerly he holds the shingle in place, then he pounds the nail true. Good. He hasn't lost his touch; problem was, he was stunned by the huge lump of dough that smooshed him in the face. He chuckles again, toes in the last nail, and cleans up the area. Tools back in their place, he stretches out his back, rolls his shoulders, and returns to the house.

McCoy has picked up his shirt from the chair back when his mother joins him on the porch. As he pulls his shirt on she remarks, "You've lost weight."

"Hmm? A little, yes. Mostly increased my workout load."

Ma pats his flat belly. "I suppose this is also for your alien girlfriend."

Taking a nap apparently didn't improve her disposition at all, but McCoy's mood is too jolly to rise to the bait. Good thing he already gave Julie and Soli a heads-up that she probably won't be joining them.

He passes along Julie's request. "Jules was hoping you'd bring some fed starter tonight for another loaf of sourdough. She was only able to make one loaf today, and you know I can't survive without a loaf in my Care package."

Ma's turns her gaze to the yard. "There's a loaf I made day before yesterday. It's frozen. I was going to serve it last night but … well, sourdough bread is special to our family, and I didn't want to … It's in the freezer. You can bring it to Julie's yourself. How'd you make out with the shed?"

McCoy's jolliness has vanished; it's clear where this is going. "Shingles are all replaced, pretty solid, should hold till next year anyway. How was your nap, Ma?"

Ma sighs, and sinks into her chair, steadying herself by clutching the edge of the table. "Like last night. Not a wink. Too much on my so-called mind. But you already knew that." She closes her eyes.

"Mm-hmm." McCoy massages his sore thumb; it's starting to swell. He should treat it, but he's not leaving his mother quite yet.

"Ma …" McCoy begins.

"Lenny, I don't want to talk about this anymore. I'm all talked out." Ma's eyes stay shut; her hands have fallen into her lap and lay there crossed and limp.

"Well, then, Ma, just listen. Please, hear me out. I'm truly sorry I botched Soli's introduction to y'all. She wasn't prepared to meet you either, you know. She thought you and Julie and Joe and the kids would love her as her adoptive family does."

Ma opens one eye, glowers at him. "And who gave her that idea?" She closes her eye. Her mouth is a thin, straight line.

Keep your temper. Keep your temper. McCoy breathes deeply, calms himself. "Ma, I'm not going to apologize for thinking the best of you and communicating that to Soli." Hah! She winces. He has struck a blow. Stay calm. Be kind. "In retrospect, I fell into this relationship too fast, including telling you about her. Even at the time I knew that on some level. Remember, you said not to spook her."

"I remember." Ma's eyes remain closed but her expression has softened. McCoy is encouraged.

"As far as having children. We've talked about it. I really want children." Ma's mouth tightens. "But Soli thinks not."

Ma straightens up and scowls at him. "What are you saying. That little beast supposes she's too good for you? Who does she think she is?"

McCoy is taken aback but for a moment, then he starts laughing. "Let me get this straight, Ma. This morning she was trying to get her claws into me, now she's rejecting me like trash. Which is it? You can't have it both ways!"

Ma tosses her head. "Oh, but I can. You could easily be manipulated in any direction. You talked about her mental powers. How do you know how you feel about anything when it comes to her?"

Not even his ex-wife was better than his mother at pushing his buttons.

"You're just making crap up, Ma. I asked Soli whether she wanted kids, and she said no because we would never get approval from Starfleet. That's assuming we could …" Stick to topic, boy. What had he meant to say? His mother is sitting up now, arms crossed, staring out at the yard away from him.

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this, Ma. It's just getting you boiling again. You're going to have to change your own mind – I surely can't do it for you. I'll be heading out tomorrow and don't want to spend my last day arguing with you. But Ma, please educate yourself. Research coming out of Starfleet is cutting-edge, really fascinating studies. I know you shun the source …"

Ma interrupts without looking at him. "Of course, I do. Got no use for xenology."

McCoy plows ahead. "Ma, some of the studies are mine and those of my team. You might understand my point of view if you looked at what I'm doing."

Ma looks at him now, eyes bright. "I didn't know you were publishing. You never mentioned it. That's wonderful, it truly is. I'm proud of you, Son. You can be sure I'll have read all your research by the time you're home again next year. Why didn't you tell me?"

McCoy sighs. "There are too many things we haven't talked about. I guess my relationship with Soli has had a broader effect than I thought it would. But, yes, my research and that of my team has been leading the field of cross-species breeding. Sounds almost like farming when put that way, doesn't it?"

Ma chuckles, humorlessly. "Yes, it does. And it brings us back to them being no better than animals."

This is the calmest she has been in conversation on this subject, and McCoy's hopes rise. "It's all very human, Ma, because it has to do with friendship, harmony, connections, love – spiritual as well as physical."

Oops. Wrong phrasing. Ma stiffens again and pulls her crossed arms in tight. Dammit. Redirect.

"One member of my team focuses on muscular and skeletal systems. Another concentrates on hematological factors. My area is combined-system incompatibility – for example, the developmental issues associated with gestational duration, which usually lead to failures in utero. There's predicting and genetically repairing incompatibility between stomach acids and stomach linings. There have been tragic, painful infant deaths, and my work is contributing to curing this condition."

Ma's passion for biology has finally surpassed her obduracy. "Lenny, that sounds absolutely fascinating!"

McCoy snorts. "Yeah, it's a real page-turner. Read it tonight – you'll sleep, I guarantee."

"I'm serious, Lenny," Ma protests. "You are addressing the very objections I have always had, but you are looking for solutions. I … I will read your studies, and with an open mind. Or at least I'll try. Well, I'll read them anyway."

Almost a breakthrough, then the back-pedaling. He knew it couldn't be that easy.

"Ma, that's all I'm asking for. When I visit again next year, I hope things will be better with us, and that you'll be able to welcome Soli into your home. That you'll try to get to know her …"

Ma gives him the eye. "You're assuming quite a lot. Even with her mind twisting, I doubt you'll still be so enamored of her. These things run their course. You'll see."

McCoy stares at nothing. It's not like he hadn't thought the same thing, but for different reasons, and watching Anon with his sister and her children has cemented many things in his mind.

"You're wrong about that, Ma. Soli is the best thing that ever happened to me. Our relationship is more important to me than having children, much as I'd like to." McCoy pauses, struck with a thought, then muses. "Or we could adopt a child. I've seen her with Alexi and JJ, and I'd be over the moon to raise a child with her." Once more McCoy pauses, then concludes, "So, anyhoo, there we are."

Mother and son sit quietly for a few minutes. McCoy shifts in his chair to reach over and put his arms around Ma's shoulders. She uncrosses her arms at last and leans into him, wrapping her own arms around him and patting his back.

"You're my precious boy," she murmurs. "Always will be. I love you dearly. I want you to be happy, but I don't see how I can support you in this."

McCoy has no words, but his clasp tightens.

"This has been a terrible shock for me, Lenny dear. I cannot believe you will want this for very long. At least give me some time. I will try. That's all I can promise. I want a grandchild from you, I do, but not a monster. And probably sterile to boot, like a mule. I can't imagine being able to accept it, much less love it. And, Lenny, I can't go with you to Julie and Joe's tonight. Bring the bread but leave me home. It's for the best."

McCoy bows his head, inhales the familiar essence of his mother, lightly kisses her hair. He feels her relax within his arms, and he holds her gently until she stirs at last.

"Are you sure you'll be all right, Ma?" He prays for the right answer; he wants to join Soli at his sister's home without guilt.

"Of course, dear heart. I'll start reading your papers, and I'll either go at it for hours, or it will put me to sleep. I'll let you know tomorrow."

They both break into laughter and hug each other again. McCoy helps his mother to her feet and accompanies her to the freezer, where she fetches the loaf of sourdough bread.

"Give my love to Julie and Joe and the kids."

McCoy winces at the obvious exclusion of Anon. "I will." He vows to take Julie aside at some point and discuss their mother's social isolation. Not that he blames Julie, but he suspects that if she knew, she would leap into the gulf without hesitation and coax their mother into a healthier mental and social state. She really is very good at that. He accepts the loaf of bread and departs his familial home.


	10. Chapter 10

**Section 2: Dance to the Music**

 **Chapter 6: Starry, Starry Night**

The long and complicated day of visitation is over, and McCoy and Anon make their way past the McCoy farm towards Peach Orchard Park. As she fills him in about the rest of the day with the children – the musical play, both Rocky Mountains and Gonna Wash That Dough Right Out of My Hair (this time with Julie's blessing), the children dragging Joe to pick raspberries the moment he arrived home so he could witness their new skillset of devouring an otherwise ordinary food, the discomfort of her by-now filthy clothes – he slips his arm around her waist and draws her close. He is confident that she ultimately won his sister over. Anon may not look at it that way quite yet, but to him it was not a given, and her success elates him.

Anon is not in his head, so McCoy is surprised when she inquires about that very topic. "Do you think your sister likes me? I can tell the children do, but she got so mad at me this morning – you were there, I was so sorry, I am so sorry – and she never actually said she was no longer mad at me. And I didn't have enough time with Joe to figure him out. Hopefully next year. If there is one." Although it is too dark to be sure, McCoy understands her well enough to know her brow is furrowed.

They don't stop walking, but McCoy releases her waist and takes her gloved hand instead, first bringing it to his lips, then letting their arms swing between them with clasped fingers. He feels her squeeze his hand. Don't say something you don't believe, he thinks to himself.

"First of all, there will be a next year, if I have anything to say about it, dear heart. Second, yes, I'd say she likes you very much. You probably didn't notice when she caught my eye and gave you the thumbs-up sign. Third, I think she was only partly angry; she was afraid as well, the mother lion protecting her cubs. Remember, I had a pretty horrible reaction the first time I experienced what you can do."

All true. He glances down, sees her nodding. "Yah, you did. But you weren't afraid, you were furious. You felt manipulated. It was pretty horrible, all right. Geezum."

McCoy had almost forgotten what a jerk he had been to her. "I came around pretty fast, though, don't you think? And never looked back. At least until now. My mistake. But to get back to your question, yes, Julie likes you, the children adore you, and next year you can focus your sweet self on Joe and charm the pants off him."

Anon looks at him in mock horror. "You don't mean that, surely!"

"Only in a manner of speaking. And don't call me Shirley."

McCoy cannot make out Anon's broad smile, but he can hear that she sighs so deeply he knows his words were actually reassuring. He'll try to remember this in the future: half-assed declarations fail; heart-felt beliefs succeed. Whether she's in his head or not.

They pick up the pace, hurrying wordlessly past his mother's house. Lights are on downstairs; she still is not sleeping. Is she reading some of his research journals and abstracts? McCoy hopes so, for all of their sakes.

Once past the farm, they slow to a comfortable stroll. McCoy decides to takes a chance, unformed as his thinking is. "Soli, if you don't want to revisit this topic, just say so. But I've been thinking about your adoption, that you were just adopted, and how your parents have now adopted three children, two very young, you a creaky old thing …"

Anon laughs, breaks away, and performs a truly horrible cartwheel, falling on her rear instead of landing on her feet, which only makes her laugh harder. "I was going to say 'Who's a creaky old thing?' But I guess I just proved it's me!"

McCoy smiles at her, reaches for her hand and pulls her to her feet; they continue walking towards the POP. He gets back on topic. "Where I was going, before you went off the rails, was that if we can't have children of our own, I'd love to adopt a child with you, like your parents did. I think you'd be a wonderful mother if you wanted to, and I'd love to be your partner, the father, you know what I'm trying to say."

Anon doesn't answer, so McCoy persists, "What do you think?"

McCoy can feel her fingers trembling through the gloves, but the evening is still warm, the air humid. He squeezes her hand and pulls her closer. He stops walking and faces her. "What do you think?"

Anon tilts her head, and he can just make out her features in the muted glow of the streetlights. "Leonard, why did I not think of that? I would love to raise a child with you. And getting Starfleet approval would be a big fat nothing. Oh, my love, we could do it, couldn't we? Just not a biting species, okay? I'm really bad at self-defense."

"Agreed, dear heart. No kids with sharp pointy teeth." Abruptly, McCoy feels Anon in his head. Her activities with the children, not just his nephew and niece but her adopted nephew as well, the play and affection, the teaching and protection, the rush of love and joy she has felt over the last three days overwhelm his emotions, and they hug each other. _Let's do it_ , she urges.

McCoy laughs, and Anon looks up and exits his head. "What?"

"Not that I'm saying you're impulsive or anything, but it's not that simple, Soli."

Anon lowers her head briefly, then returns to holding hands and walking down the road. "Okay, then. I still want to. Tomorrow." McCoy laughs again but doesn't reply. For him, it's not that simple. For her, it pretty obviously is. Tomorrow, he'll worry about tomorrow. Tonight, he'll think about tonight, about her.

As they approach the POP, they feel a steady breeze and hear a soft whoosh.

"What is that?" Anon lifts her head slightly, sniffs the air. "Is it a fan making that wind? Whatever for?"

McCoy has to chuckle. He remembers how miserable a place the POP could be before they installed the ventilation system. "Fans surround the park. They keep the mosquitoes away. Make it romantic." He can feel Anon squeezing his hand for the second time. Nice.

Only a minute more and they arrive at the transport site. McCoy explains, "You have to scan in your ID. It's not really security – anyone can transport into the park – it's more like registration. There's a record that you entered, and when you leave, the record is closed out."

First McCoy, then Anon is scanned and transported from the road to inside the park. McCoy promptly turns to the registry. He palms a scanner next to the list. "We're the only ones here right now. And no one else can enter." Just as he planned.

Anon studies the registry and the scanner, but there is no clarifying information. "What …?"

"When Granny gifted the orchard, made it public, one of the conditions was that a McCoy had first right of reserve. I reserved the POP for us a month ago. For just us." McCoy takes Anon's hand again.

The road to the POP had been gently sloping, but within the park there are steeper hills, and there are no longer any street lights to guide their way. McCoy and Anon walk slowly as they wait for their eyes to adjust, then pick their way up the path towards the top of the hill before them. McCoy mostly keeps his eyes down to follow the contours of the path, but twice steals a glance at Anon. Her head turns left, right, points up, down. He can hear her inhaling the air deeply. At no time does she scan the path; she is entirely dependent upon his guidance. Okay, then, he will be responsible for their safe ramble.

Some ten meters before the top of the hill, the trees thin out, the sky opens up, and Anon abruptly stops. McCoy suspected this would happen, hoped it would happen, and awaits her response. She releases his hand and spins around once, twice. Then she takes off running up the rest of the hill, where a picnic table with benches is just visible in the dim moonlight. She springs upon the table, compelling McCoy to call out in apprehension, but she easily alights and stretches herself toward the stars, extending her arms up, turning slowly now, slowly.

McCoy unhurriedly climbs the hill, eyes fixed on Anon. As he reaches the table, she leaps on him, wrapping her legs around him. Unprepared as he is, he scarcely has time to embrace her before he loses his balance and they fall together, whooping and laughing.

Anon lies on her back on the ground, gasping, while McCoy hauls himself to a stand. He reaches down, and they grasp each other's forearms; he pulls her up and steadies her.

"Is your plan to have my clothes as dirty as yours?" McCoy is still laughing; he leans against the picnic table.

"Oh no, Leonard. That's not my plan."

Anon reaches under McCoy's shirt, and pulls it up above his shoulders. She buries her face in his chest and belly, kissing and licking him with abandon. Her hands caress his back and then slide beneath his trouser waistband.

McCoy is beside himself. Anon has always been an enthusiastic partner but had only ever followed his lead. She has never been the aggressor. Lord, he loves it, even if he doesn't understand it.

 _What's gotten into you, girl?_

Anon pauses and looks up at him. Her eyes are black, unreadable in the night, but he catches the glint of her teeth flashing.

 _Nothing yet. Ask me again in five minutes._

What the hell? McCoy scarcely has time to think before she yanks his trousers down, and he surrenders, trembling with anticipation, belatedly tugging at her shirt and gloves and bra. She allows him to strip her clothes off, but doesn't back off her possession of his body, nor his mind. He's on his back on the table, helpless and ecstatic.

Maybe later he will ask her what made tonight so different, but for now, he is sharing her passion. And enveloped by the fragrance of the rich Georgia soil, to the music of the katydids and tree frogs, they make love under the starry night.

Spent for the moment, Anon is lying on top of McCoy. When she rolls off and sprawls on the bench, McCoy sits up as well, still on the table. She is looking at the sky again.

"I've never seen stars like this from a planet, Leonard. Janay told me about some of her travels on Terra where it was so dark she was stunned by the night sky, but this is my first time. She said people had seen pictures and told stories about constellations. Are there any constellations, here?"

McCoy looks up, trying to come up with something authoritative, but can only find a single star pattern that he knows. "Get in my head?" She does so. _See that formation? That's called the Big Dipper mostly, dipper as in a ladle, although some call it Ursa Major._

" _The Great Bear? I do love me a dead language. Why does it have two names?_ "

McCoy laughs. "Damned if I know. I was never much for star gazing. Ironic that I ended up in space. Always had my eyes on the ground and my fingers in the mud. You being a rock lady, you'll forgive my ignorance, I hope. Still, I thought you might like it here."

"You were right. Thank you."

"My pleasure. And speaking of pleasure, what got you going tonight? If it was something I did, I'd like to know so I can do it again."

Anon turns toward him, and sings, "Someone young and smiling, Climbing up my hill. Some enchanted evening You may see a Dane girl. You may see a Dane girl Across a … a dining room."

McCoy laughs. "I don't know that one, but those cannot possibly be the words. And a 'Dane girl?' Only two days after your adoption you're claiming membership in that club?"

Anon chuckles but responds to his earlier inquiry instead. "I felt how much you loved my … what – my initiative? It wasn't that you did something exactly to juice me up. It was more, well, how the day went, especially after you said you think your sister likes me, I just felt extra close to you, tied to you. Each time something like that happens – it's happened four times now – it increases my, you know, lust for you. It's … I don't know how or why it works that way. I … When you showed me the stars, and we were all alone … I guess I just lost it. Will you bring me here again? Next year?"

For Anon, this was a huge reveal; McCoy steps down and seats himself on the bench beside her.

"Of course, Darlin.' Whatever pleases you. Next year and every year."

Another moment of silence, then Anon squirms closer to him, puts her head on his left thigh and wraps her arm around him until her hand is resting on his right thigh. They are in each other's heads; he feels himself stirring again, and his concentration is scattered. Anon redirects the conversation.

 _You love your home. Can you tell me why you left here for Starfleet?_

She really doesn't know, because she really doesn't spy on him, McCoy reflects. My family knows why I basically ran away to join Starfleet; by now Soli is more than entitled to ask.

 _I'm a country boy. You know I still consider myself a country doctor_

Anon squeezes his leg and presses closer. _Yes. You say that. But I've never understood what that means aboard the Enterprise._

McCoy sighs. _Aboard the Enterprise it doesn't mean a thing. I do precious little doctoring, mostly administration. But I love my research work. You know that, too._

McCoy doesn't hear an answer in his head, but Anon communicates understanding and pats his leg. He feels a rush of emotion, of gratitude, of trust, and is emboldened to acknowledge his frailty.

 _Every relationship I've had – and there've only been three before you, dear heart – has failed badly. I even was married, Soli, committed, and I couldn't make that work. I thought she loved me; I was sure I loved her, but …_

Anon finally responds in his head verbally. _You were_ m _arried. Thank you … for telling me. I wouldn't want to try to imagine how painful that must have been for you when it didn't work. How could anyone not love you, Leonard? You are so very wonderful. Did you … did you run away?_

The dam breaks. _I did, Soli. I don't know of any divorces in my family, generation after generation. The last thing I wanted to do was spend years in space, but it was better than facing my lonely life._

He again feels Anon pressing against him physically, lifting him up emotionally, strengthening him. _Entering the Academy, being assigned to the Enterprise, forming friendships among my ship mates, leading the med team – all these things helped me make a new life that I really love. But I was still so lonely. I guess I was resigned to it. Then you came along and changed that. Oh, my love, I do believe I can face my past because I finally I have a future._

McCoy is both empty and full. He should have told her all of this long ago, but she accepts him and his story without blame or guilt. He is loved. Suddenly he realizes he meant to draw her out, but as usual managed to talk her ear off. He tries to turn it around.

 _I do love my home. I thought I would never leave, right up until the moment I left. The only thing I love more than home is you, dear heart. What I want most of all is to live here with you and raise a family. What do you want, Soli?_

Anon pulls her arm back, sits up, and moves away from him on the bench. She is no longer in his head. Not a good sign.

"I want you as my lover. I have that. I want to have a family. I have that. I want to be a geologist. I have that. I want to have friends. I have that. I want my music and movies. I have that."

McCoy mulls this over. "So, do you have everything you want, or do you only want what you already have?"

For the second time that day, McCoy has asked just the right question. The answer, however, is slow to come. That's all right. He can wait.

"Neither," Anon finally responds. "I want children with you, but I've read all your research and I know I probably can't have that. I hope we can adopt but that doesn't mean … I want your mother to love me. I sure don't have that. Maybe I will someday, but maybe not. I want … oh, Leonard, you know what else I want. I miss her every day. She wanted so much her family to adopt me. She would have been so happy. Every single day … I wish …"

McCoy knows a cue when he hears one. He takes Anon in his arms, feels her in his head, kisses her gently, and makes love with her again, languidly, coming from a different place from before, following a different path, but ending with just as much passion and joy.

McCoy has dozed off. Anon disentangles herself from him, slides to the ground, gathers up and dons her clothes. Both socks are inside-out but she pays no attention.

Anon makes her way down the hill to the transporter pad, signs herself out, and beams herself to the other side of the fence. The light is dim, but she is able to jog down the road nevertheless, until she reaches the McCoy homestead. As she pushes open the gate, McCoy's mother appears at the door and steps onto the front porch. She is carrying some gear and is accompanied by Kim the dog.

Both women freeze as they spot each other, but Ma is at a disadvantage, seeing only a dim shape in the dark. She gasps, and commands the dog, "Sic, Kim!"

The dog bounds towards Anon, but between recognizing her scent and receiving calming neural communication, she approaches in a welcoming manner, tail held high and wagging. Kim greets Anon with kisses and plops down next to her for ear scratches.

Ma realizes who has entered her yard, and is no longer afraid, but is no more happy about it either. "Get the hell off my property."

Clear enough. Anon gives Kim one last pat, urges her _go to your mama,_ and steps outside the gate.

The dog returns to Ma's side, still placid, wagging her tail. There is a long, silent pause before Ma sets the tone. "Why are you here? You are not welcome."

Anon falls to her knees, shuffles closer to the gate, touches her forehead to the gravel road, looks up.

"I came to pledge my love and devotion to you, Ms. McCoy. Now and always. I will do whatever you call on me to do, whenever you need or want anything."

Ma's shoulders rise, shadows from the streetlights distort her face, emphasizing her expression of repulsion. "What is wrong with you? You're a bizarre creature. You already know damn well what I want. Go away and leave my son alone."

Anon's head briefly bows again, but she regains eye contact quickly. "You don't get to make that choice for him. Neither one of us does. As long as he wants me, I will be there for him. But I also am here for you. Other than leaving Leonard, I will do anything you ask. Anything. Any time. Anywhere."

"You are ruining his life. My life. What kind of monster are you, trying to come between a mother and her son …"

"What I am doesn't matter. You are his mother. You were the first person in his world. You named him. You protected him from danger. You comforted him when he was afraid. You nursed him when he was sick. You would gladly lose your own life to save his. I can never, ever be all of that to him. You are the only one, and he will always, always love you. I cannot come between you. It's not possible. Just know that I am devoted to you also, because I love him."

Ma's demeanor is unchanged. "You want to do something for me? Fine. The dog has to do her business. Clean it up for me. Go on, Kim."

The dog jumps off the porch and runs into the back yard. Anon stays where she is. "Do I have permission to enter your property?"

Ma snorts. "What did I just ask you to do? Idiot. Of course, enter the yard." She holds out the scooper, but Anon does not take it, instead following Kim into the back.

Ma splutters. "At least wait until I turn on the lights."

"Not necessary. I can find my way just fine."

Ma starts to feel queasy. It dawns on her that there's no way to paint this scenario in a positive light to her son.

Anon reappears with a steaming dog turd in her hand. "You have two compost units – one smells like vegetation, the other like feces. Should I put this in the feces composter or somewhere else?"

Ma's jaw drops, and she stares from the pooper-scooper in her hand to the mess in Anon's hand. "I didn't mean … You were supposed to … Don't you dare tell Lenny I told you to pick up dog shit, because I didn't!"

Anon responds coolly. "I have no intention of telling Leonard anything about any of this. So, where do you want me to put it?"

Ma hurls the scooper to the ground. "Damn you. Put it in the feces compost. It's over near the …"

Anon interrupts. "I know where it is. My nose is very discerning. And after, may I wash my hand at the sill cock?"

Ma's apprehensions turn to fear. "Yes. Yes, of course. Then go, and don't ever come back. That's what I want of you."

Anon disappears into the back yard again. Ma hears the sound of running water. Moments after the sound stops, Anon comes out of the dark, the dog bounding at her side. She gestures, and Kim rejoins Ma on the porch.

Anon passes through the gate, closes it, turns around, and once more falls to her knees. "I swear to you. Love, loyalty, and devotion, for the rest of my life." She rises, and walks to the west, back to the POP, without looking back. Ma's unease rises but she says nothing. She retrieves the pooper-scooper and returns to the house with her dog.

McCoy feels the pat-a-pat of a finger poking him in the chest. He emerges into consciousness, and sees Anon, fully clothed, next to him. "Leonard, I have to go back to my quarters. If I so much as sit down I'm going to go unconscious, and I don't want to do that here."

McCoy sits up, still sleep-befuddled, looks around and recalls his surroundings. Reflexively he extends his hands to Anon, but she steps back. "Please get dressed and come with me back to the Enterprise, my love. I have to go to sleep. Please."

He robotically gropes for and gathers his clothes. Once again, he reaches for her, hoping for a final make-out session before they're limited by the built-in inhibitions of the Enterprise, but she eludes him. "Not now, Leonard. I can't. I'm sorry, I just can't."

Now McCoy is fully awake and wary. "What has happened, Soli?"

Anon takes a few steps down the hill. "I don't … I can't … Maybe tomorrow …" Her voice falters.

McCoy waits for her to continue, then grits his teeth. He sorts through his clothes to begin dressing. He growls, "God dammit, Soli," before he realizes that of course she can hear him and catches himself.

Then he decides he simply doesn't care. "You had a wonderful day, you said so yourself. We've never been so close. You couldn't just lie with me and be happy. You had to get all worked up. Got yourself all worked up over nothing."

Anon says quietly, "Yes, I guess I did."

McCoy's voice rises, takes on an edge. "We're exactly where we were this morning. The whole so-called wonderful day may as well have not even happened."

Anon meekly contradicts him, "It happened. It all happened. Once I sleep I'll get it all integrated. It will be okay then. It always is."

McCoy grunts. "Like hell it will. You push me away, you shut me out. Oh, but that's okay because you'll get into your own head and sort out whatever the hell it is. As always. You can't talk about it or won't. You turn to stone.

You're not a Rock Head, you have a Rock Heart. What's _okay_ about turning light into dark over nothing? Where does that leave me? Why is it always up to me to jolly you out of your damnable black moods? I don't even know what set you off." He finishes dressing. "Forget it. Let's go."

As he trudges downhill, he searches his mind for something he said or did that could have triggered this state of affairs. He comes up empty. Damn it to hell.

Anon's gloved hand moves to touch McCoy's, then pulls away. When it happens a second time, and then a third, McCoy snaps, "I told you I liked for you to take the initiative, dammit. If you want to hold my hand just take it. Don't make me do everything."

An instant later she snatches his hand, gripping it so tightly he can feel his knuckles battling each other for space. She whispers, "I'm sorry." Neither of them says another word, and they continue together to the transporter pod.

After beaming out of the park, McCoy catches her in his arms for a long embrace. "Soli, that was just plain cruel of me. Please forgive me. I love you dearly, and I wish I could help. I want to help. Please let me."

Although they both carefully avoid skin-to-skin contact, she does squeeze him back. But she stays out of his head, and says merely, "I love you, too, Leonard. You have a very full schedule tomorrow. Let's go home." She takes his hand in hers again.

They step into the road, and McCoy contacts the Enterprise's transporter room. "Two to beam up."


	11. Chapter 11

**Section 3: Nearly Forgot My Broken Heart**

 **Chapter 1: Credo**

In the transporter room, Simbollah is on night duty again and smiles (whether in delight or relief she can't be sure) when she sees McCoy and Anon beaming aboard together this time. McCoy nods distractedly at her; Anon smiles back, says, "Hey, Simbollah."

As they exit the transporter room, Anon stumbles slightly, and McCoy catches her around her waist. She leans her head against his chest and tips her face up to him. "Thanks, love, but I'm okay," she whispers, "and I'm sorry. I was just trying …" Her voice dissipates altogether.

McCoy smiles, indulgent but preoccupied, and lets his arm slide back until they are holding hands again. He walks with her in silence, reflecting on the accuracy of his earlier words and the inadequacy of his heart. When they are in each other's heads, he knows, as no man has ever known, that he has her complete devotion. So much of the rest of their time together, he blunders around, trying to comprehend her complicated inner life, and longing for a normal physical life.

His mother leaned against him for support; her hand touched his face; he stroked her hair; those physical contacts comforted both of them; Anon never touches him ungloved, she so fears revealing their thoughts to those around them.

But in his heart he knows that the real reason she avoids it is that he is the one who hates exposing their most private selves to the "squatters." She would be fine with it but doesn't want him to be in distress. This morning he experienced it differently, but now he suspects it was only because it was his sister who was connected. He pulled away as soon as others in the complex were joined.

However it may play out in their futures, for now the sensitivity forces their relationship into separate boxes, clumsy, isolating, unconnected. And even when they aren't touching, she boxes herself off; he can't argue with that, either. He loves experiencing her passion, her intensity, her ecstasy, but lordy, her dread, her fear, her despair – they all but destroy him when he is on the receiving end of those emotions. And she knows that, too, and won't even share them verbally.

Lost in his musings, McCoy is caught all unawares when Anon says, "Don't worry about me. I'll be all right." They have walked all the way to and into her quarters.

"I'm sure you will," McCoy replies, "but let me get you to your bunk, anyway. We've come this far."

Anon nods an okay, sits herself on the edge of her berth, and promptly falls over, unconscious. She sure does know her sleep cycle, and McCoy throws out an arm to prevent her pitching onto the floor, then eases her to a lying position. He pulls off her shoes, then reaches to remove her uniform, but pauses. God, she is dirty.

He pulls off her shirt, detaches her gloves. He eases her trousers down; this action sets her knees to bleeding, which surprises him and catches his eye. He watches as the blood vessels pinch off the flow – he is still not used to blood that doesn't clot, but the system mostly seems to work well enough.

Satisfied the bleeding has stopped, he examines her knees, then checks her trouser legs. Both knees are scraped, and each pantleg looks torn; what the hell was she doing with the kids this afternoon when she was out of his head? A lot of roughhousing, that's for sure.

He takes a damp cleaning wipe from her bathroom, gently daubing her knees and attempting to clean her hairline. The former works; the latter does not.

McCoy decides to strip off her undies and socks and takes all her clothing to the AC. He shoves them in and starts the cycle. He scans the cabinets and hesitates. Nobody sleeps nude on the ship, in case of an emergency, but not only does he not know where she keeps her nightclothes, he doesn't even know what they look like. Perhaps she brought them during their one shore leave together – ah, that was bliss – but she never wore them.

One night in Earth orbit sleeping in the nude will be okay. Nothing bad will happen. He returns to her berth and pulls the blanket over her, then stands upright and addresses the messaging system.

"Computer, record a message from Chief Medical Officer McCoy to Ensign Anon."

"Ready."

"Good morning, Darlin,' hope you slept well and vanquished all those demons. You can slap me if you think I was ungallant, but I put all your clothes in the AC – they were truly disgusting. Cycle will be done by the time you hear this. I would have gotten you into your jammies, but I don't know where you keep them, and I didn't want to go poking around. I'm not that nervy. Hey, and you barked your knees pretty good. You have to watch yourself with those kids. They can be wild, but I'm sure y'all had fun. I'll transfer some wet shower credits of mine to you. I'm thinking you'll need water to clean off the dough without tearing out most of your hair. With the graduation and new crew activities, I probably won't see you tomorrow, but I'll be thinking about you. I love you madly. End message."

McCoy enters his quarters, kicks off his shoes, and pads to the cabinet where he pours himself two fingers of his freshly acquired Jameson's in Julie's Care package.

As he settles into his armchair, he ponders the obligation he has tomorrow that he did not mention in his message to Anon: the memorial service for lost crew over the past year. It's a small ceremony – senior officers of the starships, and parents, spouses, and/or children of the deceased. Spock will be giving the eulogy for Andersen. Thank the lord siblings do not attend. If Anon were allowed to be there, he can't imagine she would be able to get through it without another howl of anguish transmitted throughout the galaxy.

He shudders, swirls his whiskey and sips; it warms him and he reflexively relaxes. He cannot be sure how long he dozed in the POP, but he knows it will take some time to fall back asleep, and the whiskey will help with that. The LED of the message system is blinking, so with a sigh he commands, "Computer. Play messages."

"Working. Message from Sick Bay, yesterday, time 1600 hours. 'Dr. McCoy, it's Rollins on duty. Just wanted you to know the day's medical events were minor except for a burst appendix. Surgery successful, full report recorded whenever you want it.' End message.

"Message from Ma, yesterday, time 2340. 'Lenny, don't believe anything she tells you. She said she wouldn't say anything to you but I know she's lying. It didn't happen like she says. I didn't mean anything to happen like that. You know I wouldn't, Lenny. Please call me and I'll explain everything.'

"End message. End of messages."

McCoy's body discarded its relaxed posture at the first sound of his mother's voice. Now he forces himself to lean back in his chair, but no force is required to down the remaining Jameson's in a single swallow. "Replay message," he commands. It hasn't changed.

What the hell. There was some interaction between Soli and Ma while he was asleep, and it didn't end well. No wonder Soli didn't want to let him in on it.

Who initiated the contact? That's an easy one. Soli must have gone to his mother's. What on earth possessed her? Anon is much too passive to have been confrontative, but clearly that's how his mother took it, and then she ran with it. Ran right into a brick wall with it.

He rises and pours another finger of the whiskey, and mindlessly swirls it around and around as he settles back in the chair. Damned if he's going to return Ma's call tonight. Let her stew. Soli hadn't gotten herself worked up out of nowhere, as he had accused her; she was trying to fix things in her well-meaning but artless way, and Ma had rebuffed her, at the very least. Of that he is certain.

McCoy sets the tumbler on the counter and dresses for sleep. He finally slams his drink back, performs his ablutions, and crawls into bed. In addition to all his professional duties tomorrow, he is going to have to find some time to see his mother once more before he ships out, goddammit. He'll coordinate with Julie if possible, but she undoubtedly will be going back to work herself. He sinks into slumber.

Anon sits up abruptly, as she always does upon awakening, and she looks around and about briefly. In her bed, under the covers. No jammies. Not even any undies. In the pitch-black, the red LED is glowing on the AC; a wash load has completed. The yellow "message waiting" light is blinking. She snaps her fingers, producing a low, ambient light.

She slides to the floor, stretches, and rubs her hair; she pulls her fingers away, scratches her scalp, looks at her fingers. "Ugh. What a mess."

She finally responds to the blinking of her message console, commanding, "Computer. Play messages."

"Working. Message from Chief Medical Officer McCoy, today, time 0043. 'Good morning, Darlin,' hope you slept well …'"

As McCoy's deep, soothing drawl fills the air, Anon skips to the console and caresses the speaker. At the word "demons," her smile flees. She repeats an unfamiliar word. "Ungallant?" By the time she hears his comments about her scraped knees, her caress of the speaker has turned into a clutch, and her other hand is clenched, pounding her thigh.

When the message concludes, however, she says merely, "Computer. Save message. Sweet, sweet man. Slept fine, my love, but demons not vanquished."

Taking McCoy's advice, and his credits, to use water on her hair, she starts the shower running, enters, and doesn't emerge for more than eight minutes. The crusted dough took a good deal of coaxing to dissolve and run off. She doesn't use the dry function, preferring to use a pillowcase (lacking any towels – as an ensign she has never had water shower credits of her own) to rub herself down, then she battles her hair to run a comb through the tangles.

Anon finally goes to the AC, where the red LED is still glowing, and pulls out the clothing. The trousers are immediately set aside, and, after an examination, so are the gloves. "Mending," she grouses. "My least favorite. I need a playlist for that, I really do."

She opens one of the cabinets and retrieves her pajamas, slipping into them, then opens another cabinet and pulls out a pair of gloves – short-length, not built into a bra – and dons them. She paces restlessly, pauses, and says again, louder, "Demons not vanquished."

Anon plops down on her berth, and rocks back and forth, head in her hands. She cries out, "Janay, how do I ever talk to anybody about important stuff! What am I to do? What am I to do?" She scoots back and draws in her knees. Just as she is about to assume her fetal position for meditation, there is a bright flash of light, and she leaps to her feet.

In front of her is a pale blob. A person. Shaggy black hair. Sprawled on the floor. She approaches, sniffing the air, cautiously at first, then in a rush. She reaches out, touches the body, then pulls back her hands. Her voice is strangled. "I think my sleep pattern has changed. I must be dreaming."

Janay's voice, but hoarse, whispery. "I don't know, Rock Head. Are you naked and unable to move?"

Anon appraises herself. "What? No. Definitely not."

The same weak voice. "Then it's not your dream. It's mine."

Anon springs backward, snatching the blanket and pillow from her berth. "Oh, my sister. You must be so uncomfortable. I'm slow and stupid. Here you go." And she tucks the blanket around the flaccid limbs of the beloved woman before her, supports the lolling head before slipping the pillow underneath.

"Computer. Medical emergency. Call Chief Medical Officer McCoy in his quarters. Auditory …"

The computer's indifferent voice interrupts Anon. "Medical emergencies are directed to Sickbay only. Please correct and clarify."

"Geezum's sake!" Anon comes so very close to uselessly swearing at her computer, then Andersen redirects as only Janay ever could.

"Geezum's sake? That's a new one, Rock Head. Where did that come from? I love it. It's so you."

Anon falls to her knees and embraces her helpless sister. "Computer. Cancel medical emergency. Call Chief Medical Officer McCoy in his quarters. Auditory signal until he answers."

"Calling."

McCoy slowly rouses from deep sleep, aware of and then annoyed by the incessant chime of the call system. At last he can answer, more or less. Mainly less.

"What."

Anon's voice bursts into his consciousness. "Leonard. You have to come right away. To my quarters. Come to my quarters. Please. Please come. Bring. Bring your … your tricorder. Please. Right away."

She has his attention, and he finally responds, groggy but alert. "Soli, what's wrong? Are you all right? What's going on?"

Even through the speaker Anon's voice has an edge he cannot interpret. "I'm fine, Leonard. But it's an emergency. It is. It really is. Please, you have to come. With your, with your tricorder. It's important. An emergency. Please." And with that she cuts off the call.

What the goddam hell. He fell asleep to one insane message and now wakes up to another. McCoy pushes himself upright and snaps his fingers to produce the low light level. "Computer. Time?"

"Time is 0312 hours."

Perfect. He's wide awake, though his head is still dulled by the Jameson's, and he is not ready to move. Oh, I'm fine, just fine, Leonard, but it's an emergency. Sure it is. Now he's just getting pissed off. Comes a point where, if you have enough crazy people in your life, it's you, not them. He puts his head in his hands and massages his temples. Better.

So. Anon is fine. She said so. He will get dressed at his own pace and get to her quarters when he jolly well feels like it. He already feels guilty. Where did he put his pants? He hates when he has to ask that.

Anon has turned her attention back to Andersen and fluffs the pillow. "Is that better? How did this happen? Are you thirsty? Oh, my sister, my sister." Anon kisses her own gloved fingertips and touches them to Andersen's lips.

Even Anon's sharp ears can scarcely make out Andersen's words. "Yah. I don't … I don't think I can swallow. I'd drool over your pillow. Even in a dream, that's just too disgusting."

Anon dashes to the counter, grabs one of the freshly washed gloves. "It's okay, Janay. I'll just wet your lips, maybe your tongue, and it will feel better, even without swallowing." She dampens the glove under the faucet, wrings out the excess and applies it to Andersen's mouth.

Andersen flicks her tongue – a voluntary movement at last. "Feels good. Look at you taking care of me, instead of the other way around. I mean, when I dream I'm naked and helpless, someone usually covers me up, but this is the first time anyone slipped a pillow under my head, too. So sweet."

Anon presses the wet glove to Andersen's mouth again. This time there is no tongue movement, and the water dribbles down Andersen's cheek. Anon catches it with her fingertip and applies it to her sister's lips.

Andersen's eyes close, for more than a moment, then reopen. "Water is so blah. How about some dream ice cream from the dream mess hall? Or some dream sherry from my dream cabinet. I don't like this anymore. Change the scene. I should be flying. Or wandering around looking for a classroom I can't find. Why am I still here on the floor of your quarters?"

Anon murmurs, "Shh, shh, shh. You're fine. I'll take care of you."

Andersen's whispery voice grows stronger, her vocal cords start to vibrate in response to her tension. "No. I'm not fine, Sis. I don't understand. What's wrong with me? I have to wake up. I have got to wake up now. Um, Soli, there's someone weird behind you."

Anon's reflexes take over. "Computer. Start recording." In one smooth motion, she steps over the prostrate body of her sister, snatches the heaviest sculpture from the countertop, jumps back over Andersen into a defensive crouch, and raises the sculpture.

Another flash of light, and the sculpture is no longer in her hand. She snaps her fingers twice, and the room is fully lit. Andersen emits an anguished cry; Anon calls, "Dim lights," which restores the semi-darkness in which Andersen had arrived. Still keeping her center of gravity low, Anon advances on the figure slung casually on her bunk. She stops and straightens.

"What is Young Frankenstein doing in my quarters?"

In the transporter room, Simbollah listens as a disembodied voice on the console intones, "Engineering All Call. Energy pulse detected; unknown source. Run diagnostics on all systems. Locate focus of energy. Report all findings to Engineering. Commander Scott has been notified and is on his way."

Simbollah runs through the relatively simple systems check for the segregated transporter room, then expands her search methodically. She calls up the readings that triggered the All Call and runs an analysis. Very weird. The readings are akin to those produced when warp drive is engaged, but without the stretching of time or space; they are instantaneous and highly localized.

Localized where? She triangulates and calculates. Crew quarters. Which room? Simbollah freezes, but only for a moment, then her fingers fly as she sends her data. She is shaking by the time she is finished; she stands abruptly, turns towards the door. No. She cannot abandon her post. She slams her hands on the console, repeatedly, until the pain captures her attention, then she sits and reruns all her analyses.

When she confirms the results, Simbollah expands her search criteria, fine-tuning the diagnostics to focus on the wave length in question. With a cry, she yanks her hands from the instruments as though they are on fire when readings indicate the energy has returned, not a one-and-done pulse this time, but unmistakably the same characteristics. It is a low but steady state now, almost precisely the same location – shit – as the first time. Again, she passes along her findings. She sets one of her displays to monitor the power and duration. Yes, it's still there.

Simbollah's breath is ragged and rapid; her hands tremble violently. More analysis, keep your mind focused, what else, what else.

Prior occurrences. Maybe the pulse was an anomaly or a malfunction or an error, depending on its origin. At this low level the energy would not have been detected under normal conditions, like trying to detect a single LED in the face of the light of the sun. As she continues to refine her settings and searches back, slowly, painstakingly, her breathing smooths and the shaking diminishes. She is focused. Second only to music, this is what she loves best.

There it is. Yesterday. Oh! Twice yesterday! Not as brief as the pulse a few minutes ago, nor as powerful; not as long as the present time but measurably stronger. In the medical storage wing both times, not crew quarters.

Moving back in time, she encounters the energy pulse once more, several months ago, similar in power and duration to yesterday's events. Also in crew quarters, but not the same room. Whose? And does anything shipboard correlate to the three dates this has happened?

Simbollah checks the monitor. As she watches the energy pulse ceases, and she saves the exact time and calculates the duration. She resets the monitor to look for the pulse elsewhere on the Enterprise and returns to going backward in time.

"Do you like the look?" The figure on her bed poses seductively. Anon keeps her eyes open but sniffs the air.

"I considered dressing as Willy Wonka, candy manufacturing mogul," and the figure suddenly is dressed in the colorful garb of the older 2D movie version, "but I know you much prefer 'Young Frankenstein' to all other Gene Wilder roles, and anyway, it really comes closer to what I did for you." Just as abruptly the creature is back in the lab coat costume.

"What are you?" Anon has moved just enough to be directly between the creature and Andersen, blocking the latter's view. "You're not a life form – I can't smell anything. You are a projection, yes? Sight, sound, nothing more. Where did you come from and why are you here? And seriously, Gene Wilder? Get real or get out."

The creature laughs, a high-pitched giggle reminiscent of Leo Bloom's hysteria during the final scenes of "The Producers."

"Do you want me to take my creation with me as well? I have heroically risked the opprobrium of my fellows, the exile from my home, just to gift you with your dear friend and sister. Raised from the dead, thanks to me, and me alone." The creature's facial contortions are not in the least reminiscent of Gene Wilder's emotive expressions. Somewhere between a leer and disgust. Nothing readable.

Andersen pleads. "Make it stop, Soli. I need a good night's sleep, not a nightmare. We have a major field science expedition tomorrow. You're the one taking care of me – make it stop." Her voice has more volume than a whisper now but is still hoarse and strangled.

Anon steps back, sets herself down cross-legged, and pulls Andersen into her lap. "Leave her alone," she snaps at the Frankenstein parody. "You have no business here."

The Frankenstein giggles again. "My business is whatever I choose it to be. I have been watching you since I first became aware you were worth watching. I know your entire mortal life, and it is most entertaining."

Anon holds Andersen tighter and closer. "Jerk face! You've been spying on me? I hate spying, which you would know if you've been watching me. Explain yourself, whatever you are!"

The creature now attempts some high-class British melodrama. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am H, from the Continuum, immortal, omnipotent, ubiquitous."

Anon's face registers confusion. "You're who from where? Say something that makes sense."

H collapses into giggles, unable to maintain his dramatic character. "Yes, Soli Anon, you're right. I have been spying on you. There are precious few mortals with their useless little lives that any of us in the Continuum can be bothered with, but you drew my interest, and I have studied your entire life span. I have spied on you sufficient to memorize your story and to spin it into an epic, a saga that my Continuum fellows simply adore. You are a round peg in a universe that contains square and hexagonal and star-shaped holes only, so each and every time you are picked up, you don't fit and are discarded. It's most intriguing, even for immortals."

Andersen rallies to her sister's defense. "You have no cause to be cruel. Piss off, Continuous Ache."

H manages a look of wounded dignity. "That's the 'Continuum' not continuous. And it's 'H' not ache."

Anon strokes Andersen's hair soothingly, but her sister is not finished. "Continuous Ache, pain in the ass, all the same to me. Soli is beloved, she matters to lots of people."

The creature titters again. "Now we come to the heart of the matter. She matters to many people, oh yes, she does. But only because of you, Janay Andersen. Without you, she would have lived out her days, friendless and alone, on Bolarus 9. You both know this to be true, although, yes, it is cruel."

Andersen lifts her eyes to Anon. "This is turning into the worst dream ever. I'm past wanting to wake up." Anon's expression offers no comfort, although she continues to shush softly, and rocks back and forth.

H hops down to the floor, and strikes a heroic pose, lunge position, fist raised. "The situation is unique, and beyond your comprehension. Two mortals, in the same generation, of interest to the Continuum. Astounding. So compelling, that when one of them dies, it simply must be brought back."

H enjoys the shock its words produce, then it goes on. "Bringing a dead human back to life is a simple matter. Grab some stem cells, in this case right from Med storage, grow a body, restore the volume of stem cells so no one notices any loss of mass, grab a brain imprint, stuff it in the new body's brain, and voila: a recreated human, ready for action.

"Even a child in the Continuum – not that there are any – could recreate a mortal whose stem cells are readily available. But you should know, little ones, that my primary gift, unmatched by anyone else, is story-telling. My peers hang on my every word.

"So, my concern was stealth within the Continuum. We all agreed that Janay Andersen. being special, should be returned to the galaxy at some point to live out a normal lifespan, normal for a mortal. The debate was about when and where we should do so. I don't mind telling you, the subject of recreating Janay Andersen was talked to death, you should pardon the expression. No offense."

H was met with a stony silence. "Excuse me? I have spent enough time in the company of Terrans to know that the correct response to 'No offense' is 'None taken.'"

Andersen is in no condition to respond, so Anon does, the type of confrontation she had always avoided in her life.

"Offense is taken. Jerk face."

H waves its hand airily. "I've watched this exchange 7,810 times, and you always say that. Ah, well. To continue – no pun intended – the great difficulty I had was keeping my project secret. I had to be so very sneaky! But I succeeded! And every trick I know about distraction, diversion, and dissembling I learned from you, Soli Anon.

"So here we all are. You won't be pleased with the fitness level of your body, Janay Andersen. Really, I grew it in record time, stealthily, cleverly – nay, brilliantly! Oh, and your memories were only just implanted, so they may be shaky for a while. In fact, that's why I forgive your difficulty with my name and place of origin."

H looks directly at Andersen, then at Anon. "You better get rolling, Soli Anon. Explain to your sister all that has happened. Your lover will be here shortly to interrupt the proceedings." H resumes lounging on the bunk.

Anon has been staring at H during this speech, looks down tenderly at Andersen, who croaks, "I died? I've been brought back to life? No. I can't even. You have a lover? McCoy, of course. The Boyfriend who loved you even with no touching." Tears well from her eyes and fall down her cheeks. Anon wipes them with her damp glove.

"Everything is true that Doctor Professor Baron von Frankenstein said. You're not having a dream. You died on the expedition to Reynos 3. Months ago. I almost died from heartbreak. Leonard fixed me. We became lovers – and you were right, I do love sex."

Andersen reflexively mumbles, "I'm always right."

Anon smiles briefly, then continues, "But I struggle every day – every day – trying to hold onto my friends, and I haven't made any new ones, Janay. I can't.

"It's Academy graduation day tomorrow, so we had shore leave for the last few days. Your family adopted me day before yesterday. We really are sisters, now. Then I met Leonard's mother. She hates me. You would have known what to do but I didn't. I tried to fix it by swearing my eternal loyalty, love, and devotion to her, but she still scorned me."

Andersen's tears have stopped during the soliloquy; her shock turned to bewilderment turned to mischief. She couldn't help herself.

"You made a pledge to her? Like the Munchkin did to Stuart of Gorgon?"

Anon's eyebrows arch high, and a long moment passes before she responds. "You mean the hobbit who vowed loyalty to the Steward of Gondor?"

Andersen blinks, her tongue flicks out and in again. "Yah, that sounds right. Anyway, how'd that work out for Mittens?"

Once more Anon has to decipher. "You mean Pippin?"

Andersen screeches, "I have an Abby Normal brain! What did you do to me, Tooth Ache!"

Anon kisses her gloved fingertips, touches Andersen's forehead. "Shh, shh, you weren't so far off, Block Head. Munchkins and hobbits are both little people. Stuart and Steward, very similar words. Gorgons were horrible scary monsters, and there were lots of scary monsters stomping around in Gondor. And we both loved the cartoon that had Mittens. You'll be fine – I promise we'll watch all of the movies together, and you'll remember everything. Everything."

"Yah, everything." Tears are freely flowing down Andersen's cheeks again, and Anon hugs her hard, rocking, head bowed. "Hey, you, Tooth Ache. What's so great about a body that can't move and a brain that's discombobulated? Why did you bring me back to an eff'ed up mess like a blob of … of …"

"Bread dough," Anon finishes, helpfully.

"Yah, bread dough." Andersen raises her eyes to Anon. "Thanks. I think." She looks back at H. "Damn you to hell."

H props itself on an elbow, examines its fingernails, makes the women wait for an answer.

"I can afford to be magnanimous towards you, Janay Andersen, considering the enormity of what you have experienced, the great stress you are under at the moment. And you being a mere mortal.

"I brought you back to this 'effed-up mess' for two reasons. The first and most important is that Soli Anon needs you in order for her to function. It is no coincidence that you were returned after her debacle with her future mother-in-law. I admit to vanity as the Continuum's most celebrated storyteller. I need Soli Anon to be functional in order for me to weave all the elements – struggle, climax, denouement – of my most celebrated story. It's one thing to follow the life of a perpetually-discarded round peg that keeps struggling to find a round hole for herself. It's quite another thing for that round peg to allow herself to roll under the furniture with the dust bunnies and disappear. Which she was doing. So, reason one.

"The second reason is that the universe needs you in your usual kind and generous persona. You are of great interest to those who study such things as goodness, mercy, and light, the arc of the purpose of existence. It was unacceptable to them that you should be gone so soon. As a mortal, your life will be brief enough. You were going to be brought back at some time, in some form. I merely made the personal decision for it to be now, as you are.

"Your fitness level is of no importance. I do pity you, poor mortal Janay Andersen. Though the truth may be cruel, I actually am not. But it will all work out, I assure you. Oh, and some of the newness of your body will please you. Try out the neural communication – fresh brain, no more headaches. McCoy's here – gotta go. But don't worry. I'll be Bach. You be Beethoven."

H winks out. The door chime sounds. From the intercom comes a familiar if grumpy voice, "Soli, it's me. Can I come in?"

Simbollah jumps when the chirp of the communicator interrupts her intense absorption but recovers quickly. "Simbollah here."

"Scott here." Simbollah jumps again. The Chief of Engineering is calling her? Whoa.

"I've just arrived in Engineering and was directed to your data. Mounds and heaps of data, Lassie. I've got other people confirming, and so far, it's bang on. Tell me, Lassie, what're your conclusions?"

Simbollah breaks out in a cold sweat. She hasn't had a one-on-one with Commander Scott since her newbie reception three years ago. She can play her flute solo for hundreds of people without a second thought, but this private communication with her commander freezes her.

"Ensign, are you there?"

She has to say something. "Aye, sir. I'm here."

"Well?"

Dammit, she has to say something more. What was the question? Oh, yes.

"My conclusions, sir. The energy pulse that caught our attention was localized in rookie Crew Quarters. The wavelength/frequency combination is unknown in nature."

That sounds stupid. Do better, Simbollah. Nature don't enter into it. "A lower level of the energy pulse became apparent shortly after the first one ceased. Same location. I expanded my parameters and found that this exact lower level of the energy, previously unexamined due to normal background activity, has been detected on three prior occasions. In addition, extremely low levels have been, well, constant, for the last year. Mostly corresponding to … well, I'm reluctant to draw a conclusion, sir."

Scott prefers wild speculation to cautious mush. "Draw away, Lassie. What do you think?"

Simbollah draws a deep breath. In or out. All in. "This energy variety is extant when Ensign Anon is in the vicinity. Not exclusively – I have detected it when she is nowhere near it. But 97% of the time, if this energy is detectable, Ensign Anon is nearby. And I just … Sir, I just recorded a diminished level, but it's still there. I mean, it was for a while, and then it wasn't. And now it's back again. For now. Right in her quarters. That's my data. I've transmitted it to Engineering."

"Thank you, Ensign. Fine work. Scott out."

Cold sweat, hot sweat, and Simbollah is positively drenched in sweat. Her superior officer didn't dismiss her, but neither did he indicate she must stay on duty past her scheduled time. She will start counting the minutes until she can sign out and get to her friend's quarters and make sure Anon is all right.

The door slides open. McCoy steps through the entrance and stops. Anon is embracing an impossibility. He draws a sharp breath.

"Soli. Get away from that."

"Leonard. It's Janay. She's back." She sings, per Beethoven, "Freude, schöner Götterfunken!" She then reverts to speech, "I don't understand how but she's here."

McCoy's mouth is dry. He can scarcely speak. "No, Soli, dear. I don't know what that is, but it isn't Janay. You know it isn't. It's impossible. Please. Move away from it. Carefully. Come by to me."

Tears are flowing once more from Andersen's eyes, and Anon bends over her, pulling her close. "Leonard, she's helpless. Please, please, come examine her. She wouldn't hurt anyone. She can't hurt anyone. She's too weak to even move."

Andersen speaks in her cracking whisper. "I'm not that helpless, Rock Head. If you stuck my hand in front of my face, I'm pretty sure I could pick my nose."

Anon chokes, sobbing and laughing simultaneously. "See what I mean, Leonard? Who else would say that? It's Janay. I know. I know! Scan her. Look at her DNA. I'm sure. I can smell her!"

"Watch it, sis. Don't be rude." The voice is hoarse but recognizable.

McCoy is a believer in cold, raw data, but damn, who else but Janay would, under extreme duress, crack wise like this. Really. It's the kind of thing that she'd say that used to put him off, until he fell in love with Soli and accepted her friend freely and fully. Nevertheless, this is impossible.

"Soli, dear heart," he cajoles. "Tomorrow I have to participate in the ceremony that honors lost crew. Her parents will be there to accept the tribute. I've confirmed every way possible that Janay is gone. Listen to me. You know I'm right. Please, move away from it."

Janay's strangled cry pierces the air. "Don't leave me, Soli. I'm so scared." She hears Anon's voice in her head. _I'm here, I won't leave you. I'll take care of you._ Andersen feels none of the buzz she used to experience when Anon was in her head. H predicted this. Clear and connected and comforted.

Anon redirects to McCoy. "Scan her with your tricorder. You'll see she's human; later you can get a tissue sample and check her DNA in great detail."

This is futile, McCoy realizes. He edges towards the communication console. It will take but a moment to call security.

Wham. A flash of light, and H reappears. This time it's the Waco Kid, all in black. It tips its cowboy hat forward and blows on its fingertips. H really has seen every movie Anon loves, every time and more.

It addresses Anon. "I told you I'd be back."

"No," snaps Anon. "You told me you'd be Bach. I did my part – I was Beethoven. Even though I hate the stupid Terminator movies. Get it right. Geezum's sakes. But I do love 'Blazing Saddles, so I guess it's okay."

McCoy no longer feels wide awake, or much of anything for that matter. He is definitely in the middle of a bizarre dream. So, what the hell. He'll go with it.

He aims his tricorder, first at the curly-haired thing in the black cowboy outfit, then at the thing identified as Janay. The former registers not at all, the latter registers as Terran, as Janay Andersen.

H speaks up. "Security is already on the way, Dr. McCoy. Engineering can measure my presence, after a fashion, even if you cannot. I'll pop off again in a moment, but right now – now –you need to support your mate and my protagonist. That there on the floor is Janay Andersen. Her fitness level is too low even to measure, her brain will not be fully functional for several of your days, and she is succumbing to shock. Treat her, hydrate her, feed her, and ship her to her family. She will be able to help Soli Anon in ways you cannot, and my most beloved story can continue on its fabulous arc. Don't expect to see me again." And H winks out.

After the tricorder had told him of Andersen's condition, McCoy heard nothing of H's speech. He disbelieves Anon, but he trusts his instrument. He bounds to the communication console and slams the call button. "McCoy to Sickbay. Send the emergency med team with a gurney to this location. Bring warming blankets and a full med kit. Stat."

He pulls out the deepest of the drawers, dumps its contents on the floor, overturns it and lifts Andersen's feet upon it. Blood to the head may keep her from passing out until the med team arrives. He has no meds with him. He ponders the personnel available for his emergency med team. Customarily he has a skeleton staff during the Academy graduation shore leave, thus he has by default assigned himself to the team. It scarcely registers that H is gone and that Anon is bent over Andersen, singing and cooing. He stands, holding Andersen's feet on the high surface, and waits for his team.

Action, not words. That is the defining characteristic of the yellow shirts. Security bursts through the door, no code needed, no permission required nor requested. They fan out, but all they see is McCoy, standing, Anon sitting cross-legged, and a long, pale female, with her head in Anon's lap and her bare legs upon an upturned drawer. No obvious threats. Still, they take their defensive positions and await orders.

Commander Victorino fills the doorway, despite his small stature. Nothing is visibly amiss, but he orders his team, "Scan for the energy signature downloaded from Engineering." Each of them attempts to do so, but no one seems able to settle on a location.

Victorino scowls at Anon. "Ensign Anon. Damn sick of problems you're a part of."

Anon ignores him, except to say, "Computer, stop recording," and he fixes his gaze on McCoy. "Got any answers, Doctor? I didn't hear about a medical emergency …" His eyes are unfocused for a moment, then zero in again on McCoy. "Now I hear it. Anything to do with the energy pulse?"

There is no love lost between the Chief Medical Officer and the Chief Security Officer, but never have their missions been so at odds. McCoy aims a scowl of his own at Victorino. The security officer blanches at being on the receiving end of a McCoy power glower.

McCoy snaps, "What energy pulse? When my med team arrives, I expect your people to stay out of their way." McCoy pulls himself up to his full stature, a good thirteen centimeters taller than Victorino, then gives it up as a bad move. Physical intimidation is neither his style nor his strength.

Victorino senses McCoy's deference, and presses his advantage. He points to Andersen's motionless figure. "Since when is an intoxicated crew member on shore leave an emergency requiring the services of the Chief Medical Officer?"

"Since when is a medical emergency the business of the Chief Security Officer?" McCoy retorts.

Anon finally lifts her head to take in the scene, revealing Andersen's face, and a yellow shirt gasps, "That's Janay. I mean Lieutenant Andersen!"

"No, it is not!" Victorino aims his phaser at Andersen, and the rest of the security team follows suit. Andersen whimpers, and Anon gathers her closer, covering Andersen's eyes with her gloved hand.

McCoy looks around the room. This is where he came in, except that now there are weapons drawn. He forces his emotions and his face into a semblance of calm before he speaks.

"Victorino, tell your team to stand down. Please. I can't explain what has happened, but this woman is in physical distress and is no danger to anyone."

Victorino responds firmly, "I believe you are uninformed, Doctor. An alien life form fits the bill of what we are looking for, and that's just what we're looking at. We're taking the creature to the brig. Please step aside. You, too, Ensign."

"No." Anon is quiet but unyielding. She bends over Andersen again.

McCoy can stand firm against a fellow senior officer, but Anon has no such power. He tries coaxing her rather than giving orders.

"Ensign. Soli. You need to move away from her. I won't allow anything to happen to her, I promise."

Anon looks at him, her face twisted in agony. "All right, Leonard. Doctor. All right. But first I'm putting some clothes on her. She is modest. She has pride. She wouldn't want to be carted away like this."

With that, Anon pulls off her nightshirt, and, skillfully keeping the blanket over the defenseless woman's chest, forces Andersen's limp arms into the sleeves, then pulls it closed across the front. She then strips off her pajama bottoms and similarly maneuvers Andersen's legs and hips into them.

"I know they're too short for you, but they'll keep you covered up till you get something that fits."

Andersen's hoarse voice can barely be heard. "Soli, honey. I appreciate your respecting my privacy. I love you for it. And I know you're totally not modest, your upbringing and all. But I think some of the other people in this room might be uncomfortable with your being naked, even if you're not."

Anon freezes and looks around wildly. Without lowering their phasers, the yellow shirts are looking away, except for Victorino, who could well erupt into flames, so red is his face. McCoy stays in place, shaking his head.

"Geezum's sakes!" Anon wails. "See, this is why everybody loves you, Janay. You always think about other people's feelings. It never even crossed my mind. I'm sorry, so sorry." She tucks the blanket around her friend again to keep her warm, and scurries across her room to grab and don her torn clothes from yesterday just as the medical team arrives.

Before Victorino can say a word, McCoy takes over.

"Bring the heat blanket over. On three, roll her onto it. One, two …" In seconds, Andersen is wrapped in the warming blanket, lifted onto the gurney, and strapped in. A hypo-spray brings life back into her eyes, although nothing can improve her pallor yet. "Get her to Sickbay. Treat her for shock. Biopsy her and run the samples through the data base. All the data bases."

As McCoy and the team roll Andersen out of the room, Victorino does the only thing he can. He turns to Anon and snarls, "You disobeyed my direct order. You're confined to quarters." He and the yellow shirts leave; after the door closes he adds, "Martinez, Ali – posts at the door." Victorino codes the door locked, and the two assigned to guard duty stand at attention in the corridor outside the room.

Victorino has one last command. "Team, this is an order. None of what happened here is to be discussed, not with the rest of the crew nor with each other. Remain alert for any similar events, and call for back-up immediately if you see anyone or anything. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Crystal."

Victorino and the rest of the security team jog down the corridor after the med team, phasers still unholstered, though no longer aimed at Andersen.

 _Soli, don't leave me. Talk to me. Spy on me, I don't care. Just stay with me._

 _Of course, Janay, my dear sister. Hey, let me tell you about our amazing nephew. Little Niels has gotten so big. And he's talking! Yes! You won't believe what happened with him and me during shore leave …_


	12. Chapter 12

**Section 3: Nearly Forgot My Broken Heart**

 **Chapter 2: What'll I Do**

Simbollah is finally off duty, but rather than collapse in exhaustion on her bunk for a well-deserved off-shift sleep, she hurries to Anon's quarters, there encountering the two yellow shirts guarding the room. She recognizes them both. "Hey, Martinez, Ali. What's going on? Can I get in to see Anon? Some weird stuff was going on. Is she okay?"

When Movie Night was opened to all comers, Martinez was one of the newcomers. He well knows the closeness of the Cacophony members, and his face lights up.

"Simbollah! Thank god …" Martinez glances at Ali, who frowns. She has never been to Movie Night. It's a delicate situation. Martinez hesitates. "I'm sorry. We're under orders not to talk about it to anyone."

Simbollah looks at Ali, who meets her gaze, then back at Martinez, who cannot.

"Okay, then." SImbollah tries again – she's not under any orders. "Don't talk about it. Just please, tell me, is Anon okay? No more questions, just that."

No answer, but Martinez and Ali glance at each other.

"I beamed her aboard from shore leave hours ago." Simbollah encourages. "She was fine. She said 'Hey.' She must have gone to her quarters. Is she okay?" Simbollah's voice rises in pitch and intensity.

Martinez bites his lip, bursts out, "She's in her quarters. She's uninjured. That's all I can say."

Ali shoots him another frown, steps between him and Simbollah. "You have to go."

Simbollah looks past Ali to Martinez, who skirts the edges of insubordination.

He pleads, "Look, when this mess gets resolved, I promise you'll be the first one I tell. Say, you play a pipe or something, right?"

"Um, flute. So?" Simbollah tries to concentrate, despite the dizzying changes of topic.

"Okay," Martinez continues, oblivious. "Go play your pipe flute thing, maybe with the rest of your band, stay cool, maybe you can even call her over the console. She may be cut off, I don't know, but maybe you can all play together, like you always do, all right?"

Simbollah reaches out and touches Martinez's hand, the one without the phaser. "Right." She retreats in the direction of her quarters, not mollified. She glances back at the yellow shirts, but they're regarding each other not looking at her. She continues on her way.

Ali rolls her eyes at Martinez. "This goes south, I'm not taking the blame." She steps back to her post.

 _Thank you, Dr. McCoy._ Andersen's mental voice is clear, even if her physical voice is guttural and increasingly unintelligible.

Anon, spying per Andersen's request, hears McCoy's reassuring rumble. _Rest and relax as best you can. I'll grab all the therapists on board and on Earth to get you strong again. Don't you worry yourself about a thing, Dear._

Anon watches him leave the ward, then sees only blackness. Andersen has closed her eyes.

 _You still there, little sister? I have to confess that I was wrong about The Boyfriend. The one time I had experienced him as my doctor was for the intake physical, you know. After that I only saw my attending, not him. Dr. McCoy was so gruff and brusque and humorless, and you know me, yakking up a storm, but I couldn't get a rise out of him no matter what I said. He all but told me to shut up._

 _Janay, I don't believe that!_ Anon objects.

 _Well, no._ Andersen admits. _It makes a better story to say that, but still, he definitely was standoffish, which to me was irresistible. So, every time I ran across him for the next two years, I'd joke at him and poke at him, but I never could get him to react. Then when he became The Boyfriend, you know, he was always nice and gracious to me because of you._

 _He loves you, Janay. I know it. He loves you because of you. Give yourself credit._ Anon protests unnecessarily: As usual, Andersen has the right of it, although McCoy did eventually come to love Anon's friend in her own right.

 _You're missing the point, Rock Head. I'm trying to tell you I can see why you fell for him. He was so gentle and kind, he got me out of shock, and he was so apologetic when he had to do that invasive procedure with the needle and stuff._

Andersen communicates a mental shudder. _And you heard him – when the aide came to dress me in Sickbay clothes, he shooed her off so I could stay in your jammies. He didn't have to do that, probably broke one of his own rules, but it was sweet and understanding. So, like I said, I was wrong. Just about him, though. And don't worry. It won't happen again._

Anon laughs out loud. The dead weight of anxiety that had burdened Anon is now on the frail shoulders of Andersen. They both know they cannot avoid a heart-to-heart, for the prospects are undeniably grim.

 _Janay, I love you so much and I've missed you more than I can ever say. But you heard Leonard say he's going to get therapists on Earth. I'm afraid he means you won't be able to stay aboard the Enterprise for your recovery. I'll stay in your head, wherever we go. Your, I mean, our family will be so happy for you to come home. They'll wait on you hand and foot._

Andersen's spirit asserts itself. _First, they'll have to wait on my dangly head. Why, Soli, did you have to go there? I was having this little fantasy where I keep my position and zoom around the Enterprise in a roller terrorizing everybody. Couldn't you have indulged me, just for a day? You always have to be so damned honest_.

Anon pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around her head, as Andersen continues, _And don't go all fetal on me, Soli. I'm not mad at you. I'm just trying not to think about what's going to happen. Your scenario actually is best-case optimistic, and I appreciate that. I sure don't want to end up in the brig or in Dr. McCoy's evil, experimental laboratory. Bwah-ha-ha!_

Anon doesn't laugh this time but does unwind herself. The moment of silence is interrupted by the voice of the computer.

"Incoming message from Ensign Simbollah."

 _That's weird._ Anon thinks at Andersen. _Why didn't she just call? I've been right here_.

Aloud to the computer she commands, "Computer. Play message."

Simbollah's voice floats on the air, hesitant yet rushed. "Anon, I hope you get this. I tried to see you after my shift, but the yellow shirts wouldn't let me in. One of them was Martinez, who I even know, but he wouldn't tell me what was going on. He did at least tell me you were uninjured. Then I got even more worried because why should you be injured in the first place unless something terrible happened. Which it might have, because most of my shift I was tracking down a strange energy pulse that was centered on your quarters I found out, and also, I found two lesser pulses yesterday, not in your quarters but in the Medical Storage area for some strange reason, and another one the night before that horrible Away Team disaster happened, and that pulse was in Andersen's quarters. I thought if anyone could make sense of it, you could. Oh, but maybe I shouldn't be telling you. Crap, now that I think about it I'm sure I shouldn't have said anything. Well, too late now. Isn't that from Pirates? So anyway, if you can message me back I'd like that, please if you're allowed. I did try to call but computer said your call services were offline. So, I messaged and computer didn't say I couldn't so this is it. And if you have any information I could put through my instruments, please. So I can keep my mind occupied instead of going nuts. I should sleep but I can't. Bye."

"Message ended," the computer intones.

A stunned silence, both literal and in the neural communication sense, fills Anon's quarters and Andersen's ward.

Finally, Andersen reacts. _She seems fine. In a crazed hamster kind of way._

 _I think I'm running on the same wheel. Geezum, Janay, guards outside my door? Victorino confined me to quarters but I didn't think he'd forcefully enforce it. Or whatever. And Simbollah couldn't call in? Hang on, let me try calling out._

"Computer," Anon says aloud. "Place a call to Ensign Simbollah."

The computer answers indifferently, "Call services for Ensign Anon are offline."

"Geezum's sakes _!_ " Anon pauses only briefly before commanding, "Computer, copy the video record of my quarters from this morning, and send it to Engineering, to the attention of Ensign Simbollah. Add this message: Simbollah, I got your message. Thanks, I'm fine. I'm sending you this recording. It was during the pulse. May be just static, but if anyone can apply electronics magic and make it viewable, you can. I love you. Bye."

Andersen is shocked into blathering. _Honey, you're under lockdown, you're clearly supposed to be incommunicado, and you don't know what all else, and you share a recording of what got you in trouble without checking for authorization? Have you lost your noodle? Soli, I need you. Don't get yourself locked away until the end of time!_

Anon begins her customary pacing and hand flapping. Andersen can sense it through their connection but dares not mention it. Pacing and flapping beats meditation and fetal shutdown any time.

 _Talk to me, Sister. What were you think … what was your analysis?_

Andersen waits patiently. Even with her poor mental function, she knows how to coax Anon out of her closed state.

Finally, Anon puts words to thoughts. _I'm in trouble because of refusing an order, not because of H or you. The only thing Commander Victorino told me directly was that I was confined to quarters, not that I was cut off. Janay, I needed to act to get the recording to Simbollah before I received a direct order not to. I might get away with disobeying an order once, but not a second time. Yes, it was impulsive, excuse me for living. If the energy pulse she mentioned was still present, even at a low level, when H was talking to us, the recording might be useless, but it does fall in her area of expertise, so she might be able to concoct a filter or an enhancement that would clear it up. When my actions are under review, that could help me_. _You too._

Andersen considers the gush of words. _As usual, I can't fault your analysis Rock Head. We'll just have to wait and see what the fallout is. Meantime, just stay with me as much as you can, okay?_

 _Sure, Block Head. Want to watch one of those movies that you got all mixed together?_

Andersen laughs, if a grunt can be considered a laugh, _Sure. Which ones were they again?_

 _Well, let's see._ _The one with the loyalty pledge started this whole mess, so…_

Andersen interrupts. _Not that one, not first_. _I don't want to embarrass you about your own pledge._

 _You're forgetting who you're talking to._ Anon corrects her, shaking her head even though Andersen can't see her. _I'm never embarrassed about anything_.

 _Oh, right, right. You fly past embarrassment straight into the loving arms of utter humiliation. But I still want to wait on that one, Rock Head. What were the others?_

Anon smiles and swivels her chair to better access the controls. _There's the one with the Gorgon monster. Fun but no music. The one with the Munchkins had music and dancing, both. The cartoon one with Mittens. Songs in that one, too. Oh, and the Munchkin one had the sweet lesson that there's no place like home. What do you say?_

Andersen's thoughts reveal her fears. _No monsters. If Head Ache was Frankenstein, I'm his monster, and I seem to remember it was put to death. So, that's out. Hmm. No lessons, not even sweet ones. I'm not ready. Okay, then, Mittens it is. The cartoon. Cuteness and light. Roll 'em, Sister_.

Anon presses the controls, and "Bolt" begins to play on her console. Andersen watches and listens through Anon's mind, and she realizes that Anon was right – watching the familiar characters provides the beginnings of clarity to her confused mind. And there's more. She calms as the warmth of her sister's love fills her mind and heart.

 _Soli, do you remember the first day we met, when you said the only thing that scares you is being alone?_

 _Yah, of course. Do you want to talk? Should I pause the movie?_ Anon reaches for the controls again.

 _No, no. I just wanted to tell you that, now I'm not fighting off that weird buzz I used to get when you were in my head, I can totally understand what you meant. I think I made some stupid joke about the packed sardine tin that is a starship, but now I get it. I feel so safe right now, because you're with me. Is that what it was like when Keeper was in your head?_

 _Yah. Minus the love. Are you sure you don't want to pause the movie?_

Andersen attempts a stretch, but nothing comes of it but a slight quivering of her fingers and one flexed ankle. She is feeling stiff, which might be meaningless but at least it's something – better than paralysis. Her mind drifts, then snaps back. _I don't know. I may be falling asleep, but I'm terrified to. The last time I slept I woke up in this useless body_.

Anon furrows her brow. _Janay, as long as you are in it, your body is a precious, precious treasure._ Once more she reaches for the movie's controls.

Andersen laughs. _Miss me much?_ _Here you go again, serving me up a thick slice of_ _Drømmekage, and pouring on the glukosesirup to make it extra cloying._

Anon smiles. _I missed you every minute of every day. Except for making music and making love._

Andersen laughs again – this time it makes her whole body shake from the energy of it. _So I came in third after your keyboard and McCoy's hard body. Not bad for someone who wasn't even there, I guess. How I love you, Rock Head, and your irrepressible honesty._

Anon doesn't miss a beat. _You know exactly what I mean, Janay. Go to sleep if you need to. Sleep will probably help your brain to heal. I'll listen for you to wake up and I'll get in your head right away._

Andersen's eyes open briefly, then flutter shut. _I will try to sleep. See you on the other side. Oh!_ Her eyes open wide. _Dammit, Soli, I think I just wet myself_. Tears well up and course down her cheeks.

 _Hey, Janay, now I have an excuse to replace those ratty old pajamas._ Anon's neural voice is light, teasing, loving, and Andersen feels comforted, despite her shame.

 _I don't think so. The aide put me in special undies. Now I know why. I guess McCoy knew this would happen. Diapers at my age. Pathetic. I know what my first serious exercise will be_.

 _You'll set a speed record for toilet training, for sure._

Anon's words make Andersen laugh once more, lifting her spirits. She snuggles into Anon's neural voice. _For now, rest your weary self. Give yourself time. You'll be fine, Janay. Just fine. You're here_.

This time when her mind drifts off Andersen allows it, and shortly falls into a deep slumber. Anon stops the movie, and curls into her fetal, meditative ball.

Captain Kirk rubs his temples as he turns his gaze from one senior officer to the next, until he has made his way all around the conference table. Although he'd been technically off duty when the alert sounded, he'd been notified immediately. He had not been called upon to make any captain-level decisions or orders. A Make-It-So here and a Message-Acknowledged there. Information had shot around at the department level, and at this point he's anxious for summaries and opinions.

Uhura looks reasonably refreshed if puzzled, much as he feels. They're in Earth orbit, the last day of Starfleet Academy graduation shore leave before heading out on their next assignment, and emergencies at this time and place are almost unthinkable. The only other time he knows of was when he himself graduated.

Meanwhile, Scott, Victorino, and McCoy actually do look as if they've been up all night. Spock alone is unreadable. Typical.

"So, Vicco, you called the alert that ruined my good night's sleep. We'll start with your report." Kirk is still appraising his officers and is astonished at the baleful look McCoy directs at Victorino. The men clearly are not in agreement. Not for the first time, of course, but never so overtly hostile.

"Sir." Kirk's assessment grows to include wariness. Victorino is not generally this abrupt. The disagreement clearly has already gone beyond frowns and glares. "At 0324 I was awakened by an alert from Engineering that an energy pulse of unknown origin had been detected in Crew Quarters, and that it appeared to be ongoing. I called together a Security team to await further clarification. When the precise location was determined, my team and I entered the room to find Dr. McCoy, Ensign Anon, and a thing that was constructed to resemble the late Lieutenant Andersen."

Kirk's head whips as he stares at the speaker. Victorino has his full attention. "A hallucination?"

"Possibly," the security chief assents. "Probably. But the Ensign and the Doctor behaved as if it was real. Dr. McCoy claimed it was in medical distress – he'd already called a med team that whisked the thing away before I could examine it myself. As for Ensign Anon …"

Kirk notices Victorino's eyes flickering between himself and McCoy. This, more than ownership of the situation, must be the source of the hostility. "What about the Ensign, Vicco?"

Victorino looks one last time at McCoy, then stares at Kirk. "I ordered her to step away, and she refused. She had wrapped the thing in a blanket, looked like. The doctor told her the thing would be under his care and would not be harmed. He pulled rank on me in a security emergency. In front of my team. I intend to register a formal complaint."

His voice has already risen several decibels and half an octave. It only gets worse. "She, the Ensign, she still wouldn't move away until she had dressed the thing. In the clothes she was wearing herself. She exposed herself to my team. Disobeying an order, dereliction of duty and completely inappropriate behavior. In front of my team! I confined her to quarters and posted a guard to be sure she obeyed. I haven't heard from the guards whether she has attempted to leave her quarters, but it wouldn't surprise me if she tries to. It would be typical of her."

Victorino grinds his teeth, wets his lips. "I've cut off communication to her quarters as well. Awaiting your orders, Captain."

Kirk can see McCoy can hardly restrain himself but decides to make him wait. Maybe he'll cool down. Not likely, but maybe.

"Scotty, this incident started with an energy pulse? Any damage to the Enterprise?"

Scott clears his throat, caught by surprise. He had assumed he'd see fur fly between the chief medical and security officers before he could get a word in. "No, sir, none. I was notified when the pulse was detected, and my people had finished with almost all the diagnostics by the time I arrived in Engineering. No damage at all."

Kirk interrupts. "Almost all the diagnostics? Are they still running diagnostics?"

"Not exactly, sir." Scott straightens a bit with obvious pride. "Once damage had been assessed – and there was none, like I said – we set to looking for more information about the pulse itself. One of my engineers, on duty in the transporter room, she knows her electronics the way I know my warp core, and she went sniffing like a collie for a lost sheep. She reset her instruments to focus on the frequency that had caught our attention and found a wee bit of it was still present, not an amount that would normally set off sensors, more ignored as part of background noise. She traced it to the crew quarters, then to Ensign Anon's quarters specifically, where it made itself at home. That's when I notified Security."

Scott pauses to let that sink in. He, Scott, had been notified first, then he, Scott, had notified Victorino. Kirk suppresses a sigh. Even Scotty is not immune to blowing his own horn. Ah, well, Kirk had been well rested and well fed at his mother's in Iowa, scarcely engaged with the unusual event, while the others had been up and stressed half the night. He can be forgiving. "Go on, Scotty."

"We, I should say, the transporter room engineer, broadened the search over time. She found there had been other pulses in this range on three occasions, and that the background level that was found in Anon's quarters was almost always there. There in her quarters, to be exact. When it wasn't in the Geo Lab. Or in the mess. Or in the lounge. Or in shuttle bay … You get the picture."

Kirk glances at McCoy, who is considerably subdued but laser-focused. Scott continues, "Basically, wherever Anon was, 97% of the time, there was the energy. Barely there but always there. Except for a couple of hours during the night. When she sleeps? Can nae be sure of that, of course. I transmitted all our data to Mr. Spock for further analysis."

Kirk ponders, while McCoy drums his fingers on the table. He'll have to wait a moment longer. "Do you think Anon is the source of the energy? We know her brain is unusual, and that it shuts down when she sleeps. Or so I've been told." He raises his eyebrows at McCoy, daring him to butt in, but the doctor has gotten the message and restrains himself, ceasing the finger-drumming.

"I can nae say for sure on that either, Captain. But based on Simbollah's data - she's the transporter room engineer – based on her data, and 'tis very precise, I'd say no. The ensign may putter around, going hither and yon, as people do, but the energy, a wee pinprick, stays put, usually, not always, at the level of the ceiling."

The Captain finally acknowledges his Chief Medical Officer. "What do you say, Bones? A hallucination?"

Kirk's delaying tactic worked. McCoy remains agitated but is no longer explosive.

"A hallucination would not register on the instruments, and all our instruments read her. Human, unmistakably, identifiably Janay Andersen. She …"

"Oh for the love of …" bursts out of Victorino, but he bites his tongue when Kirk holds up his hand.

"I had the same reaction as Mr. Victorino. Anon called me, woke me to ask me to come to her quarters for an emergency – but not hers, she said. When I got there she was cradling, well, Andersen in her arms. I begged her to move away, that it was dangerous, it could not be Andersen. She refused.

"I was about to call Security when, well, let's say an actual hallucination popped into view. I'm not going to go into details about its appearance – aw, hell, it was dressed like a cowboy – but it did tell me to aim my tricorder at it and at, well, Andersen. I did. Nothing biological registered at all when I tried to read the cowboy, but the readings on Andersen were clearly human, and she, it, the being was in shock.

"Of course, I called for a med team to take her to Sickbay; I treated her as best I could while waiting. Mr. Victorino and his sec team arrived, and dammit, Captain, his actions worsened Andersen's condition."

McCoy's glare has returned, and Kirk intervenes. "Not now, Bones. Go on. She went into your custody, and you've had some time to examine her, yes? What are your findings?"

"The cowboy claimed responsibility for building her, bringing her here, to the Enterprise. It, he vanished as suddenly as he came. I treated Andersen in Sickbay, and yes, I took careful note of her body and her condition. She is physically weaker than a baby. An old compound fracture of her arm apparently never happened, no evidence of it.

"A blood sample showed no immune responses whatsoever. I may have endangered her before it dawned on me that she had had no vaccinations and she needed to be put into an isolation chamber.

"But, most important of my findings, DNA confirms it is Janay Andersen, with one exception. The length of the telomeres on her DNA date her as being less than a year in age, probably closer to three months. I can't explain any of it, Jim."

With McCoy finished, Victorino completes his interjection. "This is crazy. A bunch of mind tricks. You can't explain it because it didn't happen. We were all fooled by what it was made to look like. It was a hallucination, I tell you!"

McCoy pushes back. "Andersen said things I never heard her say before, while in a state she had never experienced, but reacting exactly the way the real Andersen would, with all her brash, okay, crude humor, turning an impossibly bad situation into something she could handle. Hallucinations are imitations, not re-creations. A hallucination could not have come up with a unique response." He feels no guilt for not crediting Anon with the insight. His fellow officers need to believe it comes from him.

Kirk is at a loss, and so turns to his First Officer, the one who had the con during the start of the incident. "Any thoughts, Mr. Spock?"

Spock speaks carefully. "I have not yet had the opportunity to review Mr. Scott's data, other than to ascertain that there is quite a bit of it. Assuming that Dr. McCoy also has recorded significant usable data …"

"Did I not just say so, Spock!" McCoy explodes.

"Yes, you did, Doctor," Spock continues calmly. "Therefore, we can conclude that the being is real, and corresponds to your instrument readings that show it is a human female, specifically Lieutenant Andersen. There is another indicator I should mention. The dog that did not bark."

"What the blazes are you talking about, Spock?" McCoy's words, but speaking for all the officers.

"Instruments detected an energy pulse and alerted Engineering. However, no instruments alerted Security that there was an intruder aboard. Why not? Because Janay Andersen is still on record as being a member of the Enterprise's crew, and will be until later this morning after the memorial ceremony. I dare say Dr. McCoy's cowboy was aware of this fact and made sure it or he placed the replacement Andersen while she still belonged here."

The conference room fills with silence as the officers take in the truth of Spock's assertion. Uhura's console beeps, a welcome interruption. She inserts her earpiece; her eyes widen as she listens.

"One moment." Uhura turns to the other officers. "It's from Engineering. They have a recording of the … incident in Anon's quarters. They said it's fuzzy but has been cleaned up enough to be visible and audible. They want to know if it would be useful for our briefing."

Kirk responds immediately. "Certainly. Please tell them to send it here. It may prove … enlightening."

Uhura's eyes once more are unfocused into middle distance as she listens from elsewhere. "Yes, thank you. It would be very useful. Please send it to me ASAP." An instant later she says, "Computer. On-screen."

On the communal screen plays the entire interaction in Anon's quarters. Despite Simbollah's enhancements, only the interactions with Anon, Andersen, and McCoy are clear. The view and words of H are fuzzy and broken, although just distinct enough to confirm McCoy's statements. Uhura barely manages to restrain her laughter at her good friend Andersen's remarks, chortling under her breath, further supporting McCoy's conviction that it is indeed Andersen they are seeing.

At its conclusion, the room again is quiet. Eyes glance respectfully at McCoy, and even Victorino nods as he says, "I was wrong. I couldn't believe it, but there it is. So, what do we do now? An alien entity 'makes itself at home,' as Mr. Scott put it, on the Enterprise for the last year. Finally shows itself. Is it still spying, Mr. Scott? On us? On the Ensign? And for what purpose?"

Scott replies, "I can take measurements, but I can nae prove motivation."

"If I may." All eyes turn to Spock. "What the entity had to say for itself was difficult to discern on the recording. Ensign Anon was a witness prior to Dr. McCoy's arrival. With your permission, Captain, I should like to interview her."

"I've confined her to quarters," Victorino argued. "I saw nothing on the recording to make me want to rescind that order."

"The fact that the recording was from Anon's quarters makes me question the confinement, its purpose, and any subsequent orders. That is, how did Engineering acquire the recording if not from the Ensign?"

Spock raises an eyebrow, and Victorino's eyes narrow. Before he can protest, Spock continues, "Mr. Victorino, I generally consult Ensign Anon on my most intractable problems, due to her consistently insightful analysis. For the sake of comity, I will conduct the interview in her quarters. Dr. McCoy, I should like to interview the being resembling Lieutenant Andersen as well, with your permission."

"Bones? Vicco?"

Kirk looks at each man. Victorino nods his assent.

McCoy replies to Spock, "I'll check on her condition and get back to you, Spock. Good enough?"

Spock nods, and turns to Kirk, who also nods, purses his lips, places his hands on the table, and looks around at his senior officers.

"Are there any further questions that need answering, hunches you have made, recommendations you have to offer? No matter. The incident is not closed in any event. We don't have enough information to satisfy me, and we're not going to get it sitting in the conference room. Anyone?"

Murmurs of "No, Sir," circle the room. "Well, then. Back to work. The pace of your progress may affect our departure from Earth orbit after the Academy ceremonies, hell, it may even affect the ceremonies, so please, get me something quickly."

"How's our patient?" McCoy strides into Sickbay and straight through to the isolation ward. The aide chases him through the labyrinth of wards, trying to answer his question.

"Scanners show she is sleeping. Before that, she was highly agitated for quite a while, neurologically, I mean. Physiologically stable to a fault. But no signs of infection."

By this time McCoy has reached the iso-ward himself and is checking the scanners. "Computer, patient on screen, maximum magnification."

Andersen's placid face fills the monitor, eyes shut, no movement behind her eyelids. McCoy studies the video. "How long has she been asleep? Any REM? Look closely – there are mineral tracks on her cheeks and dried mucous on her upper lip. She was crying. When she wakes up, please wash her face. Right now, call a meeting for all med staff in forty-five minutes. Ask Dr. Biles to report in thirty minutes – I owe her an apology for overriding her responsibility by treating this patient myself. In the meantime, I'm going for a refresher on neo-natal immunological gene therapy and am not to be disturbed."

"Yes, Doctor." The aide studies the features of the woman on the monitor, and her face falls; she had indeed missed the tell-tale signs of weeping and failed to be there for her patient. The lighting was dim, but still. She swears at herself, then returns to Sickbay's lobby to compose an All-Call for the med team.

No chime. Spock enters Anon's quarters. She is no longer in the fetal meditative position; she is at her computer console, earbuds in, eyes closed. Spock scans the room briefly, then walks over to Anon and pulls out the earbuds.

She starts, whirls to grab the sculpture with which she had futilely threatened H, raises it above her head. Her eyes meet Spock's, and she lowers the sculpture, places it with two shaking hands back on the shelf.

Spock and Anon stare at each other silently, for a long moment. Spock breaks the impasse. "Did you sense danger, Ensign?"

Anon does not break eye contact, unusual for her, Spock notes. "Yes, sir. I am very jittery and I was caught unawares. I apologize for my inappropriate reaction, sir."

"Please be seated." Spock accepts his own invitation, sitting on the berth across from Anon when she finally obliges.

"The senior officers have viewed the recording from your quarters. Engineering provided the recording to us. You provided the recording to Engineering."

Anon nodded, still not breaking eye contact with her superior officer. Spock suppresses a feeling of discomfort. He is accustomed to the ensign's easy acknowledgement of her subordinate position, having seen more of her eyelids over the past year than her purple irises.

He may need to do a mind meld to fully understand what has taken place. Or request neurological communication. There are undoubtedly emotional components that are beyond his ken. He cannot ascertain whether he is witnessing anger, defiance, or resoluteness. He takes a calming breath. Even Vulcans sometimes need to perform a calming ritual.

"The quality of the recording was poor. Although Engineering has filtered the static somewhat and continues to work to improve it, I would prefer to hear from you what you saw, what was said among all of the actors, whether you have formed a hypothesis, and all of it in as much detail as you can manage. We appear to have had a very powerful life form aboard the Enterprise, and we need to make recommendations to Starfleet and the Federation to determine what, if anything, is to be done." Spock presses the Record icon on his tricorder.

Anon stands and begins immediately both to pace and to narrate precisely the events of a few hours previous. When she has finished, Spock rises, and Anon shrinks into a corner, watching him. With his hands clasped behind his back, he takes his turn to stride wordlessly back and forth across Anon's tiny room, brows drawn together. Finally, he stops and turns to face her again.

"You are confident that the being found in your quarters this morning was Lieutenant Andersen, are you not?" Not really a question.

"Yes, sir, I am. You know what I said about her scent and her personality. After everyone left, I also tasted the floor where she lay, and I could taste her, too. Dr. McCoy certainly seemed to be treating her as a regular patient, although we haven't discussed anything since he took her to Sickbay, so I don't know what he discovered.

"As to a hypothesis, Mr. Spock, you know that's not my strength. I've thought and thought about what H said, and what it apparently did, and I can't make any sense out of it. That thing, H, said that its people don't give a damn about mortals, and yet it claims to watch me constantly, and it brought back Janay from the dead, and …" Anon's voice has risen in volume and tone; from making defiant eye contact she has regressed to staring at the floor, fists clenched. This is the wrong direction for this interview, Spock recognizes, and he nudges the conversation on a different path for the time being.

"Engineering identified three times prior to this morning's pulses when milder energy pulses of the same type were detected. The first and mildest was seven months ago, the night before the fatal away team mission, and the other two times were yesterday, relatively close together, of similar strength. I have been attempting to posit a meaningful purpose. Thus far I have failed. Have you any insights, Ensign?"

Spock's distraction works, better even than he had hoped. Anon's gaze is unfocused briefly, then she responds with clarity and confidence.

"Yes, sir, I believe I do. The time line worked like this: H took Janay … Andersen's stem cells early yesterday. That was its first physical visit. When it had grown a viable body, it made its second visit seven months ago to scan and record her brain. Finally, its third visit was late yesterday, to restore the correct mass into Andersen's genetic material, prior to its being destroyed, the end of her being a member of the Enterprise's crew."

Anon chokes back a sob that even Spock can understand, then she continues. "H said it was child's play to create a regrown body for Janay. For Andersen. I think it was boasting, probably a self-serving lie, and that instead H tried repeatedly to create a viable body that could receive her memories, knowledge, personality. It delayed restoring the mass to the stem cell vial until it was sure it had succeeded. Thus, the timing – complicated, spread out, even, Mr. Spock, kind of sprawling. H may be omnipotent and ubiquitous, but clearly not omniscient, and it had to depend on its immortality to work out the complications."

Spock sinks slowly onto the precise spot on Anon's berth that he had previously occupied, presses his fingertips to his temples.

Anon hesitates, then offers, "H is here now. It is always watching me. It knows everything about me. I'm not being full of myself. It said as much. But, I don't believe it's of any danger to our universe. It is cold and uncaring, not hostile. It could destroy us or rule us if it wanted to. It doesn't want to."

Spock raises an eyebrow. "I suspect the powers that be will disagree with your conclusion."

Anon shrugs and casts her eyes downward. Spock is back to looking at her eyelids. She mutters, "I don't know members of the ruling class. But my conclusion is correct. Anyway, I don't care about that."

"Oh?" Spock sits straight, then stands, towering over the ensign. "It's important to our continued existence. The rest of us care a great deal. I need more than mere inference to convince me or them there is no danger from all-powerful beings."

Anon turns her back to him, sidles over to her collection of Andersen's sculpture, caresses one of them, speaks at it.

"Inference is all I have. I've been thinking on all that has happened, trying to make sense of such cruel and casual power. I can't do it, but I'm confident H's species, whatever its form, poses no danger to us."

Spock observes her hunched-up posture, her deliberate movements, her physical distance, and he frowns. "You must stay engaged, Ensign Anon. Lay out your thinking process, please."

Anon's shoulders rise further, and her hands grow still. "I can't. Sir. I don't …"

"That is an order, Ensign. If all I required from you were the facts of what took place, I would already have left your quarters. On the basis of logic alone, the Enterprise, indeed the Federation is in grave danger by a species that entered and departed a starship with ease, and that wrought changes that literally are life and death. That is what logic tells me. Your analyses, however, often skew to a different view of the facts whilst still remaining completely logical. So, once again, tell me why you believe the outcome of tonight's activities is benign. Now, Ensign."

Anon turns to face Spock and lowers her arms to her sides, her fists clenched. Her eyes lock onto his.

"H and its ilk are voyeurs. They jump from time to time and from place to place, belonging nowhere and everywhere, at no time and all times. They have no interest in mortal species, except that they like to watch. I was raised by people like that, the differences being that the Ktak actively toyed with, they … they tortured lower species such as mine, and most important, that they are mortal. H's people stay out of the action and just observe. It … amuses them.

"H called itself a master storyteller, indicating that not all of its people visit every time and place; rather, they listen to and are entertained by others' observations and stories."

Spock nods his head in comprehension, but otherwise maintains his impassive eye contact.

"H has watched me in every phase of my life. It presented as Gene Wilder characters because …"

Spock interrupts, an eyebrow raised. "Gene Wilder? You mentioned that during your narrative, but what is the meaning of it?"

Anon sighs. "This is an example of how I know H was telling the truth about watching my life. Gene Wilder was, is one of my favorite comic actors. H knew that and presented as my two favorite Wilder roles. It figured I would be in awe by its flaunting of its knowledge, and up to a point, I was."

"Up to a point?" Spock steps towards her and leans on her console table. Anon, turns her back once more and slinks to her corner, then turns and faces him, her back to the wall, her hands pressed against it for support.

"Right after the awe came rage. It returned Janay at a moment of … of great despair for me. It indicated it had done so repeatedly, or not, across multiple time lines in different ways, and my inference is that it only likes how my story goes if it returns Janay. It loves my pathetic life story, but it suggested maybe in the future I gave up, surrendered? I don't know. I'll never know because it changed my life to its liking. Now it thinks it has a better story and its position as a fabulist in its society is secure. Bastard."

Spock registers surprise. "Is this not what you wanted? Assuming all things medical check out, you have your friend and mentor back again. I fail to see a reason for anger."

Anon breathes a deep, convulsive breath, turns and slams her fists into the wall spasmodically, rhythmically. "H had the power to prevent her death in the first place. So much sorrow could have been avoided, so much joy contributed, but it allowed suffering instead. It knows about my home planet but allowed me to be stolen. My poor parents, bereft, and for what? A great story. It restores Janay, oh yes, but tosses her on the floor, naked, helpless. As a favor to me? Because I was so selfish as to want her back Janay will spend the rest of her life weak and confined? No. It just thinks it's a better story. I spoke of its casual cruelty, but don't forget its cold, cold power."

All oblivious, Anon has been pounding the wall to the point where her hands are bruising, but still she continues her self-punishment. Spock rises and approaches, and she stops, shoulders heaving, breaths ragged.

"Yes, I am angry, Mr. Spock. H said Janay was going to be brought back anyway, somewhere, some when, because of her great value, her moral fiber. That idea does indeed fill me with awe. It brought her back here and now because of my stupid life story, makes her helpless and a criminal for the sake of its own entertainment. That fills me with anger. I … I can't talk about this anymore. Please. Do you think my analysis that we are in no danger is correct and logical?"

"Yes, I do," replies Spock. "It is consistent with the physical evidence we have, including a very low level of energy that has appeared wherever you go since you joined the Enterprise, and occasionally with people associated with you, the Lieutenant, Dr. McCoy. Yes, Engineering detected and mapped it. You were unaware?"

Anon's knees suddenly buckle, and she sinks to the floor. "I had no idea. That's how it was spying. It's probably here right now."

"Indeed." Spock shakes his head. "There is an aspect of your analysis that seems irrational, Ensign. Why do you say Andersen would be a criminal? That would assume bad or dangerous behaviors, either on her part or that of H, yet you just argued otherwise – that this incident is an exception to H's practice of noninterference, and that Andersen is helpless."

Spock is on the receiving end of wide-eyed astonishment, and wonders what he missed. Anon pushes herself to her feet and returns to pacing, adding hand flapping to her restless motion.

"Mr. Spock, it has nothing to do with behavior or danger. It's that Janay is a clone. An illegal person. There are no exceptions: Life in confinement for both original, if still living, and cloned persons. It's not her fault, she didn't ask for this, but H bragged about cloning her. It cannot be denied. I'm so angry, and so … so powerless, and I just can't think any further."

Spock stands motionless in contemplation, while Anon continues to pace. Eventually she slows, stopping at last in front of her sculptures. She slides the erstwhile weapon into her arms and cradles it as gently as she had held Janay hours earlier. The sculpture's title is "Joy Upon Their Heads Shall Be," but Spock does not know that. He runs their conversation through and around his mind. Anon's conclusion is well beyond what he had been prepared to act upon. He has one last question.

"Have you notified Lieutenant Andersen's family of your experiences last night?"

Anon's brows furrow, her eyes squint at him. "No, sir. I have not. You may not believe this, Commander Victorino certainly wouldn't believe this, but I actually prefer not to be insubordinate. Besides, the situation is too unsettled. I don't want to make things worse. Oh, and did I mention not wanting to be insubordinate? Not right now, anyway. Not yet." She doesn't smile, nor does Spock.

"Thank you for your assistance, Ensign." Spock takes his leave. Anon lowers herself to the floor with the sculpture still nestled in her arms.

Less than an hour remains before the memorial celebration of the lost crew members' lives, but none of the Enterprise's senior officers has changed into dress uniform. Spock, McCoy, and Scott have all informed the bridge that they have progressed in their assessments of the incident, and Kirk has called a second briefing.

For the first ten minutes the officers peruse the various reports, speculations, and recommendations of their peers, before looking to Kirk to set the tone. He clears his throat.

"I've recapped the incident to Starfleet and received orders to keep all aspects of the investigation confidential. In case you're wondering, Bones," for McCoy had immediately started to protest, "I also told them that you are not stinting on care for your patient, no matter the outcome of the investigation, and that your whole med team is already informed and engaged. They weren't happy about it but screw them."

McCoy's face smooths. "Thanks, Captain. Every test I've run confirms our patient's identity as Janay Andersen, despite her extremely immature cellular level. I'm formulating a plan to stimulate her immune system as though she is an infant, and a vaccination process along the same lines. She's asleep now, but I requested Chief Counselor Tepem to interview her as soon as she awakens to try to get some psychological insight as well. She's not her usual buoyant self, for obvious reasons; she is fearful, she's been crying. Not that I blame her, but I'd like Tepem's perspective and recommendations."

"Very good, Bones." Kirk turns to Scotty. "Thanks for your team's work on the recording. Very quick action, and much improved signal. I will recommend a commendation when restraints are loosened."

"Thank ye, Captain. But it was nae my team. It was the work of one individual, Ensign Simbollah. I'll draw up the papers of commendation as soon as I can. She has been an indefatigable wonder, but right now is sleeping it off."

Kirk chuckles. "That makes two Sleeping Beauties. How about your interviewee, Spock? Shall we make it a triple?"

Spock ignores the jest and replies with his customary demeanor. "Ensign Anon's sleep cycle will not be a factor for another nineteen point five hours, in my estimation. Her insights as to the motivation, actions, and future possibilities for the invading life form were most enlightening, and I have complete confidence in her assessment. Off topic, Captain, she seemed extremely agitated, and I would recommend that a counselor visit her at the first opportunity to appraise her mental and emotional state."

Victorino has not recovered from the affront to his dignity and his high station, and responds accordingly. "Of course she's agitated. She doesn't like being held to account. Let her sweat. She's past the time of being catered to."

Spock retorts, "Did you read my report, Mr. Victorino? The ensign made no mention of her confinement at any time. She neither complained nor pleaded her case. I am as dedicated to Starfleet protocol as it is possible for a man to be, but I fail to see where her words or actions justify your denigrating tone. She is entirely devoted to the well-being of the being she believes to be Janay Andersen …"

"Dammit, Spock, it is Janay Andersen!" McCoy's outburst startles the briefing members.

"Indeed, doctor, I too have every reason to believe the person to be Lieutenant Andersen. With such a conviction, Ensign Anon would be far more at fault had she not protected her mentor, her friend, her sister, even at the expense of her Starfleet career. Her logic and her actions were both moral and exemplary, in my opinion."

Although Spock's bearing is passive, Victorino interprets the confidence that underlies his statements as smugness, as Terrans so often do, and rises to the bait. "Of course you'd think that! She planted it in your brain. Or maybe she read your mind and told you what you wanted to hear." His lip curled, but before he could continue Kirk broke in.

"That's enough, Mister. We all have to rise above our personal feelings in this matter, and at the end of the day the important decisions will be made way above my pay grade. I thank you all for your efforts in this difficult situation. Lieutenant Uhura, I'd appreciate an executive summary of the reports and recommendations as soon as you can manage it."

"Yes, Captain," Uhura replied. "With spin?"

"Yes, Ma'am, and plenty of it. I'm in favor of the recommendations, and any subtle phrasing you can come up with to push for them, pour it on." Kirk forces a grin, but it is not returned. Uhura loved and was a close friend of Janay Andersen; she daubs her eyes and lifts her chin, jaw clenched.

"As to Ensign Anon," Kirk continues. "I have read and re-read Mr. Spock's report and recommendations, and I have, like the rest of you, seen the recording of the incident. Four times, in fact. Commander Spock, you are to make a disciplinary note in her record for insubordination and take any other action you think appropriate as Chief Science Officer."

"Yes, Captain," Spock replies evenly.

Kirk turns to Victorino. "Commander Victorino, you are to release the ensign from her confinement."

Victorino turns bright red, but answers through gritted teeth, "Aye, Captain."

"Before we conclude this briefing," Kirk adds. "I want to make very clear the necessity of accepting our differences, not just between our fellow officers but with our subordinates as well. The incident on Reynos 3 was unnerving, to say the least, but I will say this. None of us were aware of Ensign Anon's extraordinary abilities when she became a member of our crew. She had concealed those abilities for, what was it, Bones, the nineteen years since she was delivered to Bolarus 9?"

McCoy nods, "Yes, that's right."

Kirk continues, "Since Reynos 3, she has resumed control of her, uh, neurological …" He looks questioningly at McCoy.

"Neural communication."

"Thank you, Doctor." Kirk wets his lips, and looks first at Spock, then at Victorino. "Neural communication. Even with the extreme stress of this morning's events, Anon maintained control. Her thought process as detailed by Mr. Spock was lucid and comprehensive. She has proven her value to her department. So, even though we were blindsided by that Scream, I see no reason to look on her as dangerous. We have to get past what we went through, myself included. That being said, I wish we didn't have to deal with this headache, no pun intended."

"The hell it wasn't!" McCoy laughs.

"All right, Bones, maybe it was." Kirk grins, and the tension is broken. Even Victorino visibly relaxes. "Spock, as my Number One and Chief Science Officer, I'd like you to be present when I discuss the situation with Starfleet. You can make a better case for the research, reports, and recommendations we currently have. Hell, if we get enough blowback, maybe you make a proposal to use the mind meld on Andersen to probe her mental capacity and possible compromised outlook. Hope it doesn't come to that. Briefing over." He rises, and the senior officers take their cue to leave. 

The faces of the Admirals and Administrators are a chorus of frowns, playing in fugues and rounds, in twelve-part harmony. The Captain and the First Officer, by contrast, are a duet of confidence, in unison.

"You've seen all the records, research, and recommendations," Kirk declaims. "Despite the time constraints, every bit of it has been double-checked for accuracy and adherence to Federation and Earth policy. Mr. Spock himself presented the dilemma of cloning; obviously, we are not trying to avoid the serious social and legal consequences of what has happened. Still, our Lieutenant, Junior Grade, Janay Andersen has been cloned by a previously unknown species. Her life memories have been restored by a technology far beyond our own. We have already delayed the memorial service, which was to include her family, waiting for your decision."

"Familial issues, frankly, are irrelevant, Captain Kirk." Kirk can't recall the name of the administrator – Secretary Something – who speaks for the council. "The Federation appreciates your thorough and ongoing efforts, and we will certainly take your scientists' reports into account. But it will take time and much sifting of the data. You are being instructed to proceed with your normal functions as regards the Memorial and Academy Graduation."

Kirk's jaw clenches, and his eyes have the aspect of a wild man. Secretary Something continues as though Kirk were smiling agreeably. "The sole difference is that the Enterprise's next assignment will be delayed until the Council determines what is to be done with your unauthorized passenger, meaning you will stay in orbit around Earth until a decision by the Council has been reached."

Kirk explodes. "An unauthorized passenger? She was and is a valued junior officer of the Enterprise. You're saying that we will go through a memorial service, celebrating the life and … and mourning the death of Janay Andersen, handing her parents the urn containing her ashes, sending them home, while their daughter, their actual daughter, is orbiting a few kilometers above them, needing to go home with them to regain her strength and her future, and … You would put them through that because they are irrelevant! My mother never got over the loss of her husband, my father, and she would have taken him back gladly no matter the circumstances of his reincarnation. You can't be serious about this!"

"Indeed, we are serious, Captain Kirk, and mind your tone." The Secretary is as expressionless as Spock, actually more so – his face is downright lifeless. "The parents will adjust to whatever the reality is. They always do. The revelation that there is a life form of which we had no knowledge, that has the power of life or death, that can imprint brain patterns into new cells – a skill we have been seeking fruitlessly for centuries – requires far better analysis than even the best scientists can produce in just a few hours. The family of this alleged clone can wait until it's returned to them, if that is the decision of the Council, or they can mourn their child's loss and move on. As your mother did her husband's."

Spock speaks. Out of order. The Vulcan who always follows the rules speaks out to the Council. His captain was just summarily dismissed, but he speaks anyway. "Your decision is no decision at all, Secretary. There is no logic, no science, no morality. Indeed, it is an evasion of responsibility."

"You are out of order, Commander." The Secretary's face is no longer lifeless; his normal olive tinge has changed to teal.

"Acknowledged, sir. Discipline me if you feel compelled. Nevertheless, none of the science will be contradicted. Interpretations of the science can only change if politically motivated. The being who was cloned, not alleged but confirmed cloned, bears no blame. She is a replacement; there is no issue of duplicate beings, to decide which to confine and which to allow freedom. She is not starting from zero; she has memories and knowledge of the whole of her life and experiences. And as to morality – the few remaining Vulcans know what it is to experience great loss, and we have learned that the loss of an individual, whether parent, sibling, child, or colleague, is as great a loss as untold millions of lives to those who love them. I will not be a party to forcing Lieutenant Andersen's family to mourn her loss when in fact she lives. They will know the truth."

Easy for Spock to say, and with confidence. After all, he knows that Anon will spill the beans shortly, if she hasn't already. He continues, "Anon's sense of right and wrong is unassailable, and she will tell the rest of her family, Janay Andersen's family, what has happened. She will face the consequences without fear, and you can be sure I will support and defend her, whatever the personal consequence."

Kirk rises to the challenge, unwilling to have his first officer and friend walk the plank alone. "I agree with Mr. Spock completely." He glances at Spock, then repeats more formally, "In full. According to my chief medical officer, Andersen needs considerable physical therapy, and the sooner that begins, the sooner she can resume her duties as lab leader aboard the Enterprise."

Kirk feels his heart quicken with this unsupported statement He knows full well that Andersen may never regain the level of fitness required for her to resume her duties.

He plows on, hoping he doesn't break into a visible, tell-tale sweat. "How Starfleet wishes to resolve this unique situation in the long run has no bearing on the short run. Her family will be notified, Dr. McCoy will determine her treatment protocol, and Andersen will be returned to her family on Earth to begin that treatment. A court martial for doing the right thing is a minor inconvenience compared to the moral weight of doing the wrong thing."

Now is a good time to shut up, and he does. At some point he had stood up, although he can't recall when. Now is also a good time to sit down, and he does.

The Secretary's hue is olive once more, and he glances at his fellow administrators. Each of them nods acquiescence, and he leans forward. "Very well. Notify the family. In your own words, for there is no standard address for this circumstance. Keep the Council informed of your progress. We reserve our prerogative to withdraw authorization to pursue this matter in … uh … accordance with your recommendations. This meeting of the Council is concluded."


	13. Chapter 13

**Section 3: Nearly Forgot My Broken Heart**

 **Chapter 3: So Far Away**

McCoy pauses at the door to Anon's quarters. His feelings are reminiscent of the night months ago when he could hardly bring himself to press the chime. Now, of course, Anon has keyed the lock so he can let himself in any time he wishes, but still he hesitates. Let himself in? Press the chime? Go to his own quarters and wait for another time?

Definitely not the third option. There won't be a better time than now, and he can guarantee there will be worse times.

He glances up and down the corridor. Thank god there is no one to observe his dithering. The day's events have been a rickety roller coaster, dangerous, smashing what he holds most dear. Hell, more than the day's events; if he's honest he has to include the turmoil of shore leave.

He has been the most important person in Anon's life since Andersen died. He has cherished that position and all she brought to his life. Question is, was the conflict between them last night the reason that the creature cloned Andersen? What happens to him now with Andersen reanimated?

Selfish bastard, he chides himself. Maybe he does fall back to the number two person in her life. He's painfully aware how much Anon has suffered; why can't he just be happy for her? Even though Spock indicated her joy is diluted by concerns about her friend's – no, her sister's – future, he, McCoy has no doubt that she would rather have these worries than return to the loss she has experienced daily.

But where does he stand?

Plus, what in tarnation happened between his mother and Anon last night? The recording of the conversation between Anon and Andersen enlightened him not a bit.

Only one way to know. He presses the chime.

And he stands there waiting. And waiting some more. Hmm. Too early for her to be asleep. Maybe she went to rehearsal with her bandmates. Maybe she's listening to music and can't hear the chime. Maybe she's in neural contact with Andersen and is oblivious to her surroundings. Maybe …

McCoy chuckles. After all his vacillation, she's clearly not in her quarters. He takes three steps down the corridor, hears the whoosh of the door opening, turns back. All he sees is an empty doorway. Odd. He returns to the door and peers in.

Anon is standing at attention, well inside the room, to the left of the door.

"Soli?"

Anon's face lights up. "Leonard!"

She takes a step towards him and stops. "What are you doing here? Didn't Commander Victorino tell you I was confined to quarters? Why didn't the guards stop you? Are they on break? You can always let yourself in, you know that. Mr. Spock did, and he didn't even ask permission. I'm so, so glad to see you. Oh, but, is something wrong? Is Janay okay? She keeps falling asleep and she can't help it. I …"

Anon runs out of breath and words at last. Her glowing face has turned dark. McCoy steps into the room, the door closing behind him, and they reach for each other's hands. His expression is dark also.

"Didn't Commander Victorino tell you that you were no longer confined to quarters? Or one of the guards? Since this morning."

"No. Really? Nobody told me. That's okay. I would've liked to keep Janay company, but like I said, she kept falling asleep, so there would've been no point. But I'm so happy you came. I didn't think I would see you today, what with all your duties for graduation and ... Oh!" Her eyes widen, her nostrils flare, her mouth curves upward. "You brought food!"

Anon dives to his feet, and quickly but methodically sniffs her way up his legs. McCoy squirms and guffaws, "What in tarnation are you doing!"

She pauses, grins up at him, then continues her process. "Tracking down where you stashed it. I have to check every possible hiding place."

By this time McCoy is experiencing the familiar tingle of arousal. "I brought some of the hors d'oeuvres, and you know perfectly well where I stuck them. You just want to nuzzle me. As if you need an excuse."

Anon has reached his thighs, and stops, wrapping her arms around his legs. McCoy struggles to maintain his balance, gives it up as impossible, grabs her shoulders as he falls to his knees. He studies her face, her smiling mouth belying her worried eyes, and gently embraces her.

Stable now, he stands up, simultaneously lifting her to her feet, then pulls the packet of goodies from his pocket. She reaches for them immediately, but then restrains herself.

McCoy moves to the counter and unwraps the hors d'oeuvres. After the glorious blueberry theatrics at Julie's, he is not about to miss her reaction to these unfamiliar foods. He is not disappointed. Her fingers are twitching, her eyes riveted. He steps back. "Help yourself."

Though she snatches the first item, a stuffed mushroom, from the spread, her grasp is fastidious as she lifts it to her nose and inhales deeply. She maneuvers it in her fingers, and he realizes she is deciphering its unusual shape – unusual to her, that is. He has long enjoyed a wide variety of stuffed mushrooms, but she clearly is unfamiliar with the delicacy.

She strokes the round cap, picks at the stuffing and sniffs it on its own. She licks the edge of the mushroom, then the sample of the stuffing, and beams. "What a fantastic contrast! So smooth, so crusty!" Finally, she takes a bite, closing her eyes, chewing and rolling the tidbit in her mouth for a long moment before she swallows. Watching her, McCoy experiences a different kind of arousal, hardly less exciting than the other.

In silence, in conjoined pleasure, McCoy waits for Anon to eat – that is, to feel, smell, examine, taste, and he could swear she is also listening to the crunching and smooshing that is an unavoidable part of chewing and swallowing. His long-time familiarity with the hors d'oeuvres pales in comparison to her new-found enjoyment. How he wishes he could have been a witness to her early months at Starfleet Academy, when all foods were new. Of course, he knows that Anon's first year was a social disaster for her. Maybe her deep engagement with eating was part of that. He sighs. Better to stay in the present.

Anon licks the leavings off the wrapper, then stuffs it into the recycling chute. Her expression is sober now, matching his emotional state. He reaches for her and pulls her to him, opening himself to hearing her pulse, feeling her warmth, seeing the rhythm of her breathing. He searches for a safe subject. "You ate like a half-starved beast. You didn't know you were no longer in confinement. So, you hadn't eaten all day? That's just wrong." He chokes back his pointless anger at Victorino. Some other time.

"It's okay, Leonard, really it is. I'm fine. I was doing other things – I did my PT as best I could, I was in Janay's head whenever she was awake, I put together a new mixtape of songs of joy. I've been very busy. But I'm so worried about Janay's future. I told Mr. Spock. Did he tell you? What do you think?"

"He told us. The senior officers. You're quite right. No one else had even considered the possibility. But I'm concentrating on her health, Soli. I have many concerns, and I can't discuss them with you."

"I know. I wouldn't dream of asking you. Meh. I'll just ask Janay." Mischief dances across her face and quickly flits away. "I don't want to think about her being confined for the rest of her life. I could hardly stand confinement for a day. She did nothing wrong. It's not right. It's not fair."

"No. It isn't." McCoy hugs her, feels her respond in kind. "I think everyone wants an interview with her cloner and your stalker. But that's a side note. Soli, you need to understand that even if she's not confined, she can't recover on the Enterprise. I don't have the resources. Physically, she's the size of an adult, and she seems to have all her memories up to the night before the expedition, but otherwise she is an infant. No, a fetus. She needs more than PT, she needs therapy and lots of it. And I don't know what her long-term prognosis is. Even if I could tell you her medical status, I can't speculate how her life will play out. I'm sorry."

Anon's grip tightens, her head bows. "Janay said she's in isolation. She doesn't know why. But what you're saying is that it isn't punishment. It's that … that she's in physical danger. Don't … let's not talk about it anymore. I can't …"

No, you never can, McCoy reflects. You can accept anything, but you can't put it to words at all. He continues to hold her and sways gently. Eventually she straightens up, and he loosens his grip.

"Can I visit her? I'll be in lab tomorrow, but can I stay with her today when she wakens? Please?"

McCoy forces himself to think beyond his immediate reaction. Yes, Andersen's resurrection is officially classified, but to apply that to Anon is pointless. Not to mention the yellow shirts. And his med team. Aw, to hell with it. "You can visit her as often and for as long as you want. Whether she's awake or not. It will do her good. I'll notify Sickbay. But Soli, this is all classified. Don't talk to anybody about what happened last night."

Anon shrugs. "I finally understand what that means. I still think it's silly, but this is Starfleet, so, okay."

"Good morning, good morning, Good!" Anon's singing chases the cobwebs away, and Andersen opens her eyes.

 _You knew I was awake before I did_. Andersen grouses. _What's up with that? And what time is it really? I've been in and out of sleep till I don't know breakfast coffee from dinner aperitifs_.

"Well, it's too late, Baby, now, it's too late, though we really did try to make it," Anon sings, then she switches to neural. _It isn't that late. 1900 hours. I skipped supper to sit with you. When you fall asleep_ _again_ _, which you will, I'll grab a bite and come back until I have to sleep my own self_.

 _If you really love me, you'll sleep in that chair all night. Kidding! Kidding_!

Anon's eyes had widened and her jaw had dropped but now springs shut. Again, she breaks into song, "Until the twelfth of Never, I'll still be loving you …"

 _Okay, now you're just being goofy. Although, the twelfth of Never. That sounds about right for when I can do Sing-and-Sculpt again_.

Anon attempts to reach through the iso-screen to pat Andersen's hand, but the force field comes between them. She sighs and pulls back.

 _Well, that didn't work. Here_. Anon projects an earlier experience into Andersen's head, an embrace with back-patting. Unfortunately, it was during Andersen's departure from the Academy to her position on the Enterprise, but all the other remembered scenes of comfort were Andersen comforting Anon.

Andersen doesn't mind. _Aw, honey, that's sweet. I remember that day. I was weepy and nervous, and you actually comforted me. That has almost never happened, but here we are again_.

Anon smiles at Andersen, then leans in, frowns. "Can you tell me about your status? Leonard can't because of confidentiality rules blah, blah. But I'm wondering how can you eat? Do you feel stiff staying in the same position? Why are you in isolation? I could do PT with you if the iso-screen didn't get in the way. You'd get stronger faster, don't you think? And we could do fun stuff with your nails and your hair. You don't have to talk if it's too hard, neural is fine."

Andersen grimaces. _I'm trying to smile. Did that look like a smile_?

Anon frowns again, leans out, tips her head. "No, not really. But I could definitely see you changed your expression. I guess you don't have muscle memory, huh?"

Andersen attempts to speak. "Kss-nuh." She switches to thinking, which Anon picks up. _Well, that was a mess. I tried to say 'guess not' to your muscle memory question. My speech is all over the place. For your other bits of nosiness, I'm getting hypos of nutrition, which is good but I'm so, so hungry. My stomach is begging to do its job. And Nurse Chapel comes in now and then to change my position_ …

"I'll get her to show me how!" Anon enthuses. "Do you want me to sneak in something tasty and delicious and liquid?"

 _Here's the thing, Sweetie. Dr. McCoy – I'm calling him that because it was in his role as my doctor, not The Boyfriend – Dr. McCoy explained that he couldn't find any antibodies in my blood, so my immune system hasn't been challenged yet, meaning I could pick up any bug from anything and either have nothing or allergies or overdrive. He's doing some research to figure out how to bring it along safely. Meantime, iso-screen. No food. Did I mention I'm starving? But thanks for the offer._

Andersen grimaces again, tries to stretch. As before, physically all that happens is a spasm in her fingers and an ankle.

Anon slumps in her chair. "I didn't know. I wish I could help. Want to try to watch a movie again?"

Andersen stares at the ceiling. _You are helping just by being here. I'm kind of depressed, which is not something I'm used to. No movie. I can't stay awake long enough. Can you sing to me? Something beautiful and happy_?

Anon straightens. "Yes. As much as you like, as long as you're awake. Do you care what language?"

Andersen smiles.

"Janay! You smiled! I saw it! Oh, wait, did you mean to do something else?"

The smile vanishes, then briefly returns. _I did mean to smile. Hey, progress by leaps and bounds. Or by smiles and scowls. Whatever. I don't care about the language right now. You can translate if you want, or not. I just want to hear your voice as I fall asleep. Which I know I'll do. Again_.

"I'll sing a Benedictus," Anon responds. "Schubert's, in G, from his second mass. I'll sing it in the church Latin, but here's my translation: 'Blessed are those who come in the name of love.' That's not the exact words, but that's how it feels to me. Beautiful and happy and full of love."

Andersen's smile lingers a bit this time, and her right index finger reaches toward Anon before relaxing.

Anon sings until Andersen drops off. "Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini. Benedictus …"

Nurse Chapel tip-toes into the isolation ward. Her entrance rouses Anon, who was sitting motionless watching the dozing Andersen. Anon's slight movement startles Chapel, who gasps and grabs her chest. Embarrassed by her overreaction, Chapel exclaims, "Oh!" Then she reverts to a whisper. "You're still here, Ensign? I saw your sign-in, but it was so many hours ago I just assumed you had forgotten to sign out."

Anon stretches, rolls her neck and shoulders, and stands, spreading her legs and reaching for the ceiling. Finally, she answers, "Yah. I'll be going later. When it's time for my sleep period. Dr. McCoy said I could stay here as much as I wanted, and, well, this is what I wanted. But Nurse Chapel, she sure sleeps a lot."

Chapel places her hands on her hips, uncertain how to respond. Since the intake physical exactly a year ago, Chapel has felt a protectiveness towards this singular crewmember, conspicuous by some measures, invisible by others. How she is feeling about the resurrection of her beloved sister and lab mate Chapel cannot even imagine, but she feels obligated to show, in some way, that she is both sympathetic to and supportive of whatever has happened and may yet happen.

Chapel decides to go with her instincts, and spontaneously embraces the little ensign, careful, of course, not to make skin-to-skin contact. She whispers, "I'm so glad your sister was returned to you, Soli Anon. I've been in Starfleet a long time and witnessed many impossible things. But for you, this must be confusing and very frightening. How are you doing, dear?"

To Chapel's surprise, and yet somehow to be expected, Anon returns her embrace, hard. "I don't know, Nurse Chapel. I'm happy, so happy, and scared and worried and all mixed up. Thank you for asking, but I really don't know how I'm doing. I want so much for Janay to be okay and healthy, but she's not. She's just not. How I feel about it doesn't make any difference at all."

Chapel and Anon stay in each other's arms for a moment longer, then Anon breaks away. "Can I watch how you change Janay's position? Can I do it myself do you think?" She shuts down and steps back.

"No, dear." Chapel is gentle but firm. "It's not a matter of technique. You can't get clearance from the system to do this. Why don't you go back to your quarters, and sleep and rest and recover. You can't help Janay if you don't take care of yourself."

Anon returns to her chair and sits down. "I will go to my quarters when it's time for my sleep period. That won't be for another three hours. Dr. McCoy said I could stay here, so that's where I'm staying. And then tomorrow I have to go to lab, so I won't bother anyone here. It will be fine." Her jaw set, Anon turns her head to stare across the ward, away from where Chapel is preparing to rearrange Andersen's position, before looking back at the activity as if to memorize the procedure she will not be allowed to do.

Andersen awoke twice more between the Benedictus and Anon's reluctant departure for her quarters. McCoy, Chapel, and aides whom Anon had never before met dropped in to check on Andersen's status. During McCoy's last visit of the day, he attempted to shoo Anon away for a private medical consult with Andersen, but she insisted her sister stay. McCoy argued not at all.

"I've been reviewing techniques to prevent infections in severely premature infants. I've prepared a very mild solution of antibodies, the kind you would get in the womb, and we'll see how you respond. Mind you, this is experimental, which does not appeal to me at all. If you seem to be getting ill, even in the slightest, I'll pump you full of antibiotics, cleanse your blood, zap you with some khan. If you respond as I expect you should, I'll repeat the hypo twice more, then move on to a colostrum variant, what you'd receive from mother's milk. Do you follow so far? Any questions or concerns? This is my proposal, Lieutenant, nothing etched in stone. You absolutely can reject an experimental treatment."

Andersen grimaces briefly, then her face breaks out in a recognizable smile. She growls, "Admit it, Dr. McCoy. You've been dying to be a mad scientist for years, and now's your big chance. Where's your wicked laugh?"

McCoy is taken aback, but only for a moment, and he grins. "Curses, you've seen through my evil plan. I shall have to devise another."

For all that Anon has learned about life, the universe, and everything from her 2Ds, she has no sense of humor as regards her sister's wellbeing. "Leonard, what do you mean? An evil plan? I don't understand." But when Andersen joins, rasping but fully, in McCoy's laughter, Anon manages a small smile.

McCoy pats Anon's hand, while maintaining eye contact with Andersen. "If all my patients were like you, Lieutenant, I'd have a 100% success record."

"Either that," Andersen retorted, "or a 100% failure record. How confident are you, really? I ask only because my sister is too shy to put you on the spot. Also, too in love."

Anon laughs aloud at that, and McCoy moves his gaze from Andersen to his beloved. The unrelenting tension has fallen away; the lines that had frequented her face have disappeared. He knows she is worried still, but the presence of her living sister lifts her up. She can handle anything, so long as Andersen is here.

"I'm confident, Lieutenant." McCoy speaks to Andersen while contemplating Anon. "I wouldn't have made the proposal if I weren't. Data about fetal and infant immune systems are abundant and consistent. I'm confident the hypo will bolster your own immunity."

"Blah, blah," Andersen croaks. "First off, stop calling me Lieutenant. I'm not going to serve on the Enterprise, or any starship for that matter, for a long time if ever, so forget it. I'm Janay, okay? Second, you're no fun anymore. Whatever happened to the McCoy that got all flustered and offended? I miss him. You must be an imposter. Get me the guy with no sense of humor, STAT!"

This prolonged rant sends her into a coughing fit, and McCoy immediately floods her space with a spurt of anesthetic to beat it back. Andersen does her best imitation of deep breathing and flashes a grateful smile. More and more, as an infant learns to do, her face expresses what she means to convey.

Anon spreads her arms a centimeter away from the iso-screen, hovering like a bird, so near and so far. When Andersen's breathing settles, Anon settles, too. McCoy has missed none of this and decides it's time to lay all the cards on the table.

"You surely are sisters," McCoy smiles at them. "Two of a kind."

Andersen is tongue-tied and self-conscious, rare for her, as she absorbs the full measure of McCoy's words. Anon gazes at her sister in adoration, and then at McCoy, both in adoration and in awe. "Yes, Leonard, we are. Since the day we met."

Andersen attempts to nod, but there is no evidence of her effort, so she blinks rapidly, hoping to convey agreement. It works. She feels her head flooded with loving thoughts from Anon.

McCoy confesses, "it's been a crazy day." Anon and Andersen exchange glances, but neither speaks.

"Your parents were supposed to receive your ashes, Janay. That was the official, unyielding position of Starfleet Command. Until they ran up against the upright stance of Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk."

As though the iso-screen hadn't already rebuffed her multiple times this day, Anon reaches toward Andersen until the force field blocks her. She pulls her hand back. "Leonard, tell us."

"Janay. Soli. Your parents were told to stand by for further information – officially. Spock contacted them separately to prepare them for an unexpected development – unofficially. They are still on the Academy grounds, waiting. Soli, Spock thought you should be the one to tell them that Janay was returned to us. To them. To us. Whichever. He asked me to tell you that it's on you. No secrets. No confinement for now. Janay, you're going home, to Earth for sure, to your parents if possible, for medical follow-up and physical therapy. I know you both were counting on staying together on the Enterprise, but …"

"No, Leonard, you're mistaken." Anon's interruption is as self-assured as McCoy has ever heard her speak. "We've talked about this already. We didn't expect we'd physically stay together. We know Janay needs more intervention than Sickbay or Physical Training can provide. You're saying she can go home for therapy?"

McCoy gathers his thoughts. He sees tears sliding down Andersen's cheeks, but Anon's eyes are clear. Not for the first time, he is ashamed at how he underestimates Anon's capacity to face facts. She's awful at dealing with the unknown, but unafraid of reality. And Andersen, so quick to crack wise, but very sensitive to the end game. Very different, but inarguably sisters. He nods, slowly. "Yes, dear heart."

"Okay, then. I'll message our parents to get to one of the conference rooms at the Academy. Can you set Janay up so she looks less helpless, Leonard? We should do a video conference so they see her and me together and know it's real, but they need to know she's going to get strong again. Right? Oh, Mor, Far, they're going to be … I don't know what they're going to be. I can't…" It's the unknown, again, so Anon has lost her composure and looks to Andersen for guidance. Some things never change.

Andersen closes her eyes for a moment. McCoy bites his tongue, waiting for her reaction. He doesn't have to wait long.

"So, Rock Head, you can't communicate neurally with them? They don't know?"

Anon both shakes and nods her heard. "They know, but barely. They get the headaches wicked bad. I wouldn't want to give them this news neurally."

Andersen closes her eyes again, too fuzzy to continue talking aloud, so McCoy is unintentionally excluded. _You're right. I'm glad they know, but you're right not to tell them with a visual. And you're right that somebody should make me presentable and not a limp rag? And before I fall asleep again. Or right after I wake up again. Whatever. Show them that I'm okay. Well, kinda. So far as we know. Do you believe in the Boyfriend? Is he just stringing me along?_

A grin spreads across Anon's face, and McCoy raises an eyebrow questioningly. He recognizes the far-away look as indicating a conversation is happening neurally.

"Care to share?" he inquires. "Not to intrude, but Sickbay is my space. In case it slipped your mind."

"Janay is definitely feeling more herself. She just called you 'The Boyfriend.' That was quick."

McCoy suddenly finds himself included as Andersen protests, _Hey! I like being treated like a fragile flower. Don't give the game away, Rock Head!_

McCoy laughs, "Too late, Andersen. You're going to get the full McCoy bedside manner, from now on." He steals a glance at Anon. The grin that lit up her face when Andersen called him 'The Boyfriend' is still shining. She looks at him, and the happiness is infused with gratitude. Not bearing in mind that she is in his head, he thinks, t _hat damnable H was right. She does need Janay more than anything else. Now what happens?_

Anon's smile fades, and she raises her eyebrows. Next thing McCoy knows she has lunged at him, and her arms are wrapped around him, her head pressed into his chest. _Everything happens, Leonard. Everything can happen. Maybe, your mother will even like me if Janay explains to me what not to do before I do it and what to do before I not do it_.

In the instant that this exchange took place between them, McCoy feels the absence of Andersen. He sees she has fallen asleep again. Anon's head lifts at the same moment. He peels her arms away, kisses her fingertips and touches them to her lips, takes charge of his space.

"Right. We have preparations to make, Ensign. I need to get a sterile camera to set up inside the iso-shield. I'm not risking her going to a conference room. But I also don't want her folks to see her behind the shield. I'll be in my office in Sickbay. I have no preference for where you sit – conference room, your quarters, Sickbay. We'll sync all the transmissions."

"What about Janay?" Anon frowns.

"What about her?"

"You heard her. She wants to look as healthy as she, well, as we can manage. Somebody should comb her hair; she should be supported in a sitting position, or close to it. You already told me I can't go there myself, but can the person who sets up the camera do it? Or you?" Anon looks wistfully at Andersen.

McCoy chuckles. "Lord, you don't want me to be the one to gussy her up. Some days I'm lucky to remember to comb my own hair. But yes, you're right. It was a thoughtful request on her part, and easily accommodated. I'll assign an aide to help with this."

After the initial tears and moans of joy during the family reunion, the indomitable Andersen family spirit rises to the fore. Parents and siblings declare as one that the best, the only place for their daughter and sister is at home, while requesting full details of what would be and might be required of them.

The list is considerable, and the preparations time-consuming, what with moving furniture out and exercise equipment in, finding a suitable bed and chair, engaging a nurse, an aide, and various therapists, coordinating work schedules and entering data into dozens of forms.

The frantic preparations the family deals with buy time for McCoy to test his new-found infant immunology expertise thoroughly, and to allow the vaccine hypo time to do its work. The tricorder readings show marked improvement in Andersen's immune system response, so that by the time her domicile is set, so is she.

Ready or not, she's ready.

"You'll pay for this, Lieutenant. I swear to you, I'll have my revenge as a McCoy." For the infinitieth time, McCoy runs his finger under the high collar of his dress uniform.

Anon is biting her lip but loud, snorting giggles erupt all the same. Andersen smiles sweetly up at her doctor. "How was I to know it would be unseasonably hot in Copenhagen today? And in a way, it was your idea. You did ask, didn't you, if there was anything more you could do?"

"For you. For you! Not to me. Only you could turn my genuine concern into a practical joke." McCoy has always detested his dress uniform. At the Academy graduation ceremonies, he had discovered it's even worse since he started working out more – yes, Ma was right, trying to keep up with Anon – and his neck has thickened. He has had neither the time nor the inclination to have the collar altered, and Andersen just had to be a brat and insist that he wear it to meet her parents.

"Oh, but you look so handsome, Dr. McCoy. Don't you think he looks handsome, Soli?" Anon loses it and doubles over laughing. McCoy gives her the side eye and pulls on his collar again.

"I always think he looks handsome. But right now, he looks handsome and hilarious. Stop fussing with your collar and relax, Leonard. You're making it worse."

"And what would you know about it?" McCoy barks. But he does briefly put his hands at his sides, only to start fidgeting again.

They are silenced by the sound of the doors opening, and turn to face the onslaught of Andersen parents, brothers, and sisters. Andersen has trained hard since her resurrection to hold her head up, but she can't quite manage it. She can control the movements of her fingers enough to work the roller, but little else. None of that matters as the family that adores her descends upon her.

More waterworks burst forth even than on the day they learned she was restored, and questions about that event are still choked back until a better time, whenever that turns out to be. Mor bends over and holds Andersen's face in her hands, kissing her, sobbing.

Far has taken up a position behind her roller, hands first squeezing her shoulders, then stroking her hair. As for her siblings, they compete for space to hold her hands, hug her awkwardly-encased body – rollers are not designed to facilitate hugging, but the siblings try anyway. And the tears stream and flow.

That is, until Andersen explains, earnestly, "I know I've changed a lot. I'm so short! Mater. Look at you bending over me. You'd think I was ten again."

In laughing, Naminka and Mor simultaneously lift their faces from Andersen to notice Anon and McCoy, standing apart from Andersen's roller to allow the clan all the space they need. As one, Anon's mother and sister straighten and go to her, embracing her, kissing her despite the automatic buzz and headache. They draw her to the rest of the family, and Andersen stretches out her fingers to reach for her hand and grasps it as firmly as her feeble muscles can manage.

Anon returns the hugs momentarily, then reaches out to pull McCoy into the mayhem. He objects quietly, murmuring to her, "I'm a doctor, not an Andersen," but he is welcomed too warmly for his reservations to hold up for long.

His Southern manners are challenged by having to accept thanks he doesn't deserve for Andersen's return, and gratitude that he has earned for her current well-being. At some point they will learn the whole story, and then they will have to integrate his role in a different way, but for now It Is Too Much Happiness, as Anon exclaims, clearly quoting yet another of her beloved musicals that he doesn't know.

All the various forms and bureaucratic contracts are reviewed and approved for the last time, and the group transports to the Andersen residence. McCoy meets and consults with the local medical practitioner now in charge of Andersen's treatment, and he and Anon make their good-byes and return to the Enterprise.

Here is where the rubber meets the road, McCoy thinks, employing an ancient expression whose literal meaning has been lost to the mists of time but whose metaphor stays strong. He and Anon are on transporter pods beside each other, and he turns to her as soon as they materialize, not knowing what to expect.

Anon is smiling; she looks relaxed though McCoy can never be certain unless he is in her head. She notices him looking at her, reaches out, and takes both his hands in her gloved ones, squeezing them briefly before dropping them and stepping down from the transport platform.

She glances over her shoulder. "Now, that's done, and I'm done!" Another damn quote. McCoy takes two long strides to get beside her again but waits until the relative privacy of the corridor before speaking. "How are you doing, dear heart?"

Anon hugs him briefly, then grabs his hands again and swings them in an arc to her full arms' length, holding them high in triumph. "I'm happy, my love. I'm with Janay, and she's with me. We've been deciding on a routine so she gets the sleep she needs, and you and I have private time for, you know, us, and I can ask her for help and she can ask me for support, and we both …" Her voice has trailed away. She drops her arms without releasing his hands, and she stares at him, studying him. "Oh, Leonard, my dearest love. I love you, forever, Leonard."

He doesn't know which musical it came from, but he now understands what it means. It is indeed Too Much Happiness.


	14. Chapter 14

**Section 4: Schicksalslied**

 **Chapter 1: Can't Find My Way Home**

Kirk looks around his ready room at the usual suspects, all two of them: Spock and McCoy. It's been a long time since it was just the three of them meeting about the M-class Planetary Quest or the Species S. Uniqueum Source Planet, or whatever the mission is called these days.

He's relieved not to have the tension of a full senior staff meeting. Victorino is unrelentingly hostile towards the ensign; Uhura and McCoy are defensive about her, Scotty has grown increasingly irritated at the constant and, from his perspective, pointless squabbling. Kirk just wants resolution, so a meeting with only Spock and McCoy is just fine with him, as the most likely way to reach the end goal.

Only issue he can think of is that there is finally a break-through in Spock's search for Anon's home planet, meaning new machinations in dealing with Starfleet Central Command. His least favorite duty as Captain of the Enterprise is the politics. He involuntarily shudders, drawing the attention of Spock, who raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

Among Kirk's many opportunistic mottos is never complain, never explain. He dumps the meeting off to his first officer.

"Okay, Spock. You called this meeting. You must have something new."

"Indeed." Spock's face has returned to its usual imperturbable expression, and he brings up a display of an atypical astronomical formation. "After we concluded the neural communication tests on the shuttle, the results of which I forwarded to you, I narrowed the search so as to be seeking planets with the energy signatures that Ensign Anon emitted most strongly when communicating neurally. The investigation proceeded slowly, but eventually I was able to eliminate all Starfleet-explored star systems, both advanced and primitive.

"I turned to investigating those systems with M-class planets that had been identified but unexamined. There was an unexpectedly large number of these. Our probes have travelled farther than I had known. This portion of the search was most stimulating, for that reason."

McCoy all but bites his tongue to prevent an attack of well-deserved snark. He has not forgiven Spock for insinuating that McCoy's medical research was tedious, but Anon would not want him to pursue his revenge, not over this. Sometimes he wishes she weren't such a good influence on his behavior. Trying to get Spock riled up used to be a lot more fun.

Spock, all unawares, continues. "Ultimately, that avenue of exploration was fruitless as well. That left (A) a planet outside the galaxy, (B) a planet in an extremely distant quadrant of the galaxy, or (C) a planet existing in highly unusual circumstances. I chose to examine (C), a planet, M class but not identified, existing under highly unusual circumstances.

I rejected (A) and (B) because based on what little we have learned about the Ktak, they seemed to have been inclined to stay closer to home, thus (C), reasonably close to their planet even if the conditions are not ideal."

Okay, now McCoy is not so much annoyed by Spock as bored. There must be a point in his monolog somehow, somewhere, somewhen. But he glances at Kirk and feels supremely guilty. Kirk is a man of action, not of science, yet he manages at least to feign interest. McCoy determines to be the better scientist even if it kills him. He forces himself to pretend he has any patience with the build-up to whatever Spock finally decides to talk about.

Meanwhile, Spock will not be hurried. He has never had an interest nor any skill in reading the room; this time is no exception.

"Unlike the Ktak, most scientists in Starfleet are happy to travel far, but prefer their studies to be in clean spaces, easy to reach. The unusual circumstances to which I referred are generally either unsafe or difficult to reach, or both. Heavy debris fields, energetic nebulae, colliding star systems: all of these are not conducive to warp drive travel, and therefore any exploration routes have to be carefully designed and limited to impulse engines. Probes have notoriously short life spans under these conditions."

Now that he is actually listening, McCoy finds himself drawn in, and impressed by the first officer. Spock has clearly devoted a great deal of analysis and time to the search for Anon's planet. McCoy would not have known where to begin; probably neither did Spock but being Spock he found a way.

"There were surprisingly few systems that yielded information that was promising, but I have been able to narrow my search to one system in particular, where random bursts of energy have been detected over the course of many years by many passersby, of wavelengths that were neither associated with proto-star formation nor star death. It was within a quadrant of the galaxy that would have been easily reachable by Ktak ships. You recall, Doctor," and Spock turned to McCoy. "Anon shared her earliest memories, which were communicated to her by a Ktak scientist."

McCoy is offended and interrupts the narrative. Fair or unfair, he is not going to let Spock's bland description go into the record.

"Oh, I recall, all right. A scientist? The Ktak you speak of was called Keeper. Her primary role was to abduct and attend to people like Soli. Like Ensign Anon. In cages. Healing their wounds after they were tortured by other Ktak. Keeper was the zoo keeper. Science was way down on her list of priorities. Let us not mince words, Spock."

Spock bows, to McCoy's astonishment. "Your description is more accurate, Doctor. There are times when objectivity distorts reality. Keeper, as you call her, shared images of Anon's abduction; Anon in turned shared them with me, I should say with you, Chenoweth, and me, as part of the preparation for this search. It was emotionally painful for the ensign to revisit that time, and I do not intend to diminish the significance of that experience. Thank you for correcting the record."

McCoy's jaw drops. He knew Spock was torn wide open during the shuttle tests; he is basically admitting that it had a long-term effect on him. Damn. This is a first, and it could not have been easy to acknowledge. He has a new respect for the science officer.

"On examination," Spock continues, "I came to believe these energy bursts were artificial, that is to say, produced by a manufactured device, not a natural occurrence."

Even Kirk reacts to this statement, leaning forward and studying the screen. McCoy feels adrenaline kicking in making his heart race, and he forces himself to stay calm before he responds.

"Spock, Anon has been emphatic that her people are primitive. 'Stone Age' is the phrase she has used repeatedly. That was why the Ktak took her, and all the other people they stole as well. Her people did not have the capability to manufacture any kind of device that could emit an energy field, much less something that could be detected at astronomical distances."

"True, Dr. McCoy, and I am not suggesting that her people built any such thing. But the images that she shared clearly show a large structure. Her child self was deposited on that structure as I am sure you recall, prior to her being transported away. I have attempted to concentrate on the very brief glimpse of the structure in the moment before she was stolen. I have two hypotheses. First, that her people's civilization had been capable at one time of building such a monument, or whatever it was, and then deteriorated in sophistication. Second, that another civilization built the structure for her people.

"Based on the ebb and flow of most civilizations, I admit that the first hypothesis is more likely. However, the inordinate interest that 'Keeper,' as you call her, took in Anon's development lends credence to the second theory. The structure, an anomaly to be sure, may have been built by the Ktak for Anon's people to enable them to track their progress or to assist them in some way."

McCoy is suddenly deflated. "This is pretty far-fetched, Spock. I can't believe I'm hearing you say it."

Kirk jumps in to agree. "This is the kind of speculation you generally refuse to engage in, Spock."

Spock sits heavily. Whatever else his has to say, the formal part of his presentation is over. His eyes are fixed on the screen. He presses a key to enlarge the image.

"You will hear no argument from me, Captain. I avoid speculation like the disease it is. But obvious answers don't exist, and probabilities have not panned out. I am left with pursuing wraiths and shadows. I can produce no evidence that encourages this direction. After months of intense effort, this is the only lead I have, slim as it is. We cannot put off Federation pressure to resolve The Scream indefinitely. So, I must request the initiation of a mission to study this realm. Most likely, it will not succeed in its main purpose. However, even if this anomaly fails to relate to Anon's planet, there is interesting science at the heart of it, which is always a worthwhile endeavor and will likely gain Starfleet's approval."

In the back of his mind, McCoy hears Anon singing, from some ancient musical or opera whose title he can't recall, _Ah, sly dog, ah, sly dog_ , and he can't stop himself.

"Spock, you sly dog. I'm completely on board. Can I help contrive a mission to look into this?"

"I would be grateful for any assistance, Doctor. I am concerned, however, about the disruptive consequences should Ensign Anon learn of this phase of the project. She is highly emotional, and I believe it would be unhelpful for her to know. Only because," Spock hastens to add, "it would affect her work. In the Geo lab."

Kirk readily agrees and turns to McCoy, who is unable to suppress a scowl. This is exactly the opposite of what he had promised Anon would be their course of action. She was to be informed of every step of the way, consulted when possible, but always informed.

Still, Spock is right, although he expresses it coldly and clinically. If she knows the Enterprise is following a specific lead, she will be a basket case. That damnable creature H had the right of it: she lives a life of never-ending trouble and heartache. H may think it all makes a fine story, but McCoy just wants her to be happy. Not overwrought during weeks of impulse power through a bizarre realm of space only to face another devastating disappointment. And yet, he promised.

"She needs to know, Spock. It is her right. I'll concede she doesn't need to know now. If we get permission to explore strange new worlds, as our mission has it, and if your data points improve enough that you find reason for optimism, I will fill her in immediately. You realize, don't you, that wherever her planet resides, her people will be yakking neurally at a great distance, and she will hear them. What then?"

"Bones, come on." Kirk's lightens in amusement. "This is all so unlikely anyway. Let's worry about that when the time comes, which it probably won't."

"Captain, I agree with Dr. McCoy's concern." Spock is full of surprises today. "I strongly encourage you, Doctor, to prepare for DNA matching. Just 'yakking' as you put it is not definitive."

McCoy internally rolls his eyes. If Anon is yakking with her people, her own people, she will know it, and that's good enough for him, no matter what Spock has to say on the matter. And of course, Spock has more to say.

"Furthermore, whether we locate her planet with this mission or at a later time, we need a protocol in place in advance. I think it imperative that she not be a part of any away team, that she be forbidden to initiate contact with the denizens, assuming we find any. Difficult as it would be, we are in borderline legal territory: closely examining, indeed, planning to visit a civilization that falls under the Prime Directive. Nuance and subtlety are imperatives but they are not the ensign's strong points."

Developing a scientific rationale for visiting the chaotic region of space Spock has identified, without revealing the specifics, is surprisingly easy. Generally, Federation starships enter nebulas only in extremis, such as when being pursued by Romulans or Klingons, then exit as soon as possible to be on their way.

When Spock totaled the number of energy bursts that had been detected in the targeted nebula, it turned out there had been thousands over the course of centuries of Starfleet records, but there had been no passion to pursue the area;

Spock had been right. Nobody enters Starfleet to be a part of a ponderous starship mission, creeping at sub-warp speed, poking around for fluff and feathers. So, the proposed mission would be tedious but based on strong science parameters, and if the Enterprise was volunteering to undertake it, well, bon voyage, good luck and good riddance.

Spock orders Stanley to pile on assignments for Anon in lab, though he provided no explanation to the geo lab leader. Stanley finds himself amused and appalled by his own frenetic efforts to keep Anon occupied even more than usual. Once he hits on the idea to give her the additional duty of preparing her band for a 21st century blow-out Bollywood movie, Anon is flat out at all hours, giving Stanley some breathing room.

The vaguely-named JBL122455 Nebula Exploratory Mission is presented to the crew of the Enterprise as being for the purpose of scientific research, spread amongst the astronomers, physicists, and radiologists. The Med Team is to be on alert for exposure to dangerous radiation when various staffed shuttle missions venture outside the Enterprise. Not coincidentally, none of the scientists in the Geo/Hydro Lab was assigned any role in the proceedings.

Anon shares her band rehearsals and Movie Night activities with Janay across the parsecs. The bi-monthly love-making sessions with McCoy in Shuttle Bay continue on schedule, the only times when Anon is disconnected from Andersen that are not associated with sleep cycles. To McCoy's delight, the undercurrent of sadness that has always accompanied their couplings has vanished with the return of Andersen. He looks forward to them all the more eagerly because of that, but now it's his turn to shut off a part of himself. Anon notices.

 _There's something on your mind, my love. Care to share?_

 _No, dear heart. You know I'll tell you if there is._

McCoy knows that she knows there is something to share that he is keeping to himself, but she would never intrude thank the lord. For the first four weeks of the exploration, there is nothing, not even one of those energy bursts Spock had described, to give him optimism that something would turn up.

Until there is.

This time the gleesome threesome meets in Spock's office where he has ready access to the mission's findings. McCoy drums his fingers on the counter in barely suppressed excitement, but it is Kirk who is most engaged. "You have triangulated distance and coordinates, Spock? Outstanding."

"Not only that, Captain, but we are close enough that we could see the results of the energy burst. A piece of debris, most likely an asteroid, was pulverized. We were unprepared for directionality of the energy, but we were able to reconstruct the event, learning that a large object was shattered into dust and tiny pieces of rubble. It is only a one-time event, so it's too soon to be certain that there was an identifiable purpose behind it, but it is most interesting nevertheless, and unexpected."

Spock is as excited as he ever allows himself to be. McCoy's stomach is churning and flipping, but Kirk keeps his focus on resolution, or at least tangible progress. He asks, "How long do you estimate to reach the source?"

Spock sobers up, and that gets McCoy's attention. "At least four days. However, Captain, I recommend an indirect route to the source, which would delay our arrival by another five to six days."

McCoy exclaims, "You want to turn a four-day trip into a ten-day trip? Why, Spock? We've already been grinding through this space mess for over four weeks. Why can't we just get there for god's sake?"

"I agree, Spock," Kirk chimes in. "Why the delay?"

"Because, Doctor, Captain, it is possible that the shattered asteroid was itself on course to intersect with the source of the energy burst that destroyed it. I repeat, we were not specifically looking for this, and in reconstructing all the coordinates and vectors, we only succeeded with a limited confidence in our calculations. But we estimate the probability that the asteroid was on a collision course with the source of the energy burst is 84.5. If the purpose of the energy burst is protection, and if we set a course for direct interception, we could become a target. Even with shields up, we could at least be at risk of exposure as a foreign body. I believe we should make the Enterprise as unthreatening as possible. It is all supposition, of course, but probability favors this indirect approach."

Kirk slaps his hands on the counter and leans back in his chair. "I'm not a patient man, Spock. But we've waited this long, I'll humor you and wait a little longer. I sure as hell hope something comes out of this."

"Thank you, Captain, for your sufferance. I shall return to my calculations and send them to the bridge." Spock bends his head over his console, in his office; Kirk and McCoy take the hint, exchanging looks as they exit.

"I take it you still haven't mentioned anything to your ensign," Kirk inquires.

"No." McCoy shakes his head and rubs his hands on his thighs methodically. "No, there didn't seem to be a good reason to discuss it. There still doesn't. The elusive energy burst, okay, fine, but blowing up a rock and deciding that means we're on the trail of her planet, a stone-age people smashing asteroids? Spock has his precious odds but I think it's highly implausible."

Kirk leans over and claps his friend on the back. "That's as may be, but now you have to make a decision. It could all come to nothing, probably will all come to nothing, but still. Are you going to talk to her about it or not? Better too soon than too late, if you want my advice."

McCoy laughs, "I didn't want your advice, but when you're right, you're right. I'll talk to her."

Anon licks her lips and inhales a memory from her fingertips. She and McCoy are in his quarters, having just finished the last of the Care Package's sourdough bread while watching some ancient cartoons. He rubs his belly in satisfaction, even though the glory of the bread is in the taste and aroma, as Anon makes so clear.

She leans her head on his shoulder. They will have to part company soon. Her sleep cycle is quickly approaching, and he never wants to be in her head when it does. Just for a moment he wonders how Andersen feels about it. The two women are in almost constant neural contact and being dragged into oblivion when Anon suddenly goes unconscious can't be any more restful for Andersen than It has been for him on the few occasions where they miscalculate its onset.

But he tables that line of thought. Before she returns to her quarters, he needs to tell her the whole truth of the Enterprise's science mission.

"Soli, remember I said I'd talk to you about what was on my mind when I was able?"

Anon lifts her head and straightens up, all at attention. "Of course, I remember. What's been going on?"

McCoy takes a deep breath. "This region of space we're exploring. Spock thinks there is a … a slight chance that your home planet is here. I wanted to let you know, even if it doesn't pan out."

Anon's body twitches, McCoy's clue that Andersen has commented. "What?" He demands to know. "What did she say?"

Now Anon is laughing hard. "She said, 'I told you so! Right again! Pay up, sister.' We had been talking about this mission a while ago. Seemed an odd one for the Enterprise. She thought we were on a search for my planet. Of course, she's been obsessed with my planet and my people since the day we met. Stopped clock, Janay. You're a stopped clock."

More often than not McCoy is angry when he thinks about the heartless H, but this is one of those rare times when he is grateful for Andersen's return. She's the only one who can turn Anon's anxiety into merriment, and he relishes Anon's good humor. Her mood has been rendered light enough that she can follow up on the subject without pacing and flapping.

"What makes Spock suspect we are coming near to my home? And how long have you known without mentioning it?"

Oops. She's not in a good enough mood to overlook that little detail. Hoping she'll be forgiving – hell, he knows she'll forgive him – he plunges into a narration of the meeting where Spock broached his plan, bringing her up to date with this morning's announcement, including the order that she not initiate contact with any people they may discover. She forgives him, of course; she snuggles into his chest again, quiet while digesting all he has said.

"Okay, Leonard. This is exciting but you're right, I can't get my hopes up. I can wait until there's more news, really, I can. It's fine. It's good." Anon smiles. "Janay says there's an obvious loophole: I can't speak to anyone neurally but nothing says I can't listen."

"Thanks, Andersen." McCoy knows Anon will send along his words, but unexpectedly she creates a three-way connection.

 _Always happy to help, Doctor. You can count on me._

The connection is broken. Anon ritualistically kisses her finger and touches his forehead, then heads to her quarters.

McCoy saw Anon two days after the conversation for their pre-arranged Shuttle Bay hookup. She was her usual self then, passionate, responsive, loving.

But now it's been eight days, the Enterprise has settled into a geo-synchronous orbit of the planet of interest, opposite the location of the energy source, and McCoy remembers that he had imagined they would be together at this moment, Anon nervous and trembling, he strong and supportive.

Instead she is not around and hasn't been. Nor has she initiated any contact by voice, video, or message, much less getting in his head, although she has responded in her usual way whenever he reached out to her. He hadn't given it a thought, but now has the unsettling recognition that this was how she behaved after Andersen's death, able to talk but closed down underneath. Maybe she's been listening but hasn't heard anything, implying that this is not her home planet, and she's depressed.

On this day, at this time, she should be on her work shift, so he signs himself out of Sickbay and heads to her lab. He palms the door open – one of the perks of being Chief Medical Officer is having unlimited access to all work areas – and spots her across the room. She is in animated conversation with her lab leader – correction, Stanley is animated, talking up a storm. She is subdued and appears to McCoy's eyes as if she is half a world away. Which she probably is, he thinks. He strolls in and greets the lab partners.

Anon's shoulders twitch and her head whips around when he speaks. Her eyes open wide and then blink spasmodically. She's really not all there, McCoy thinks, but he is unworried because for all her facial tics, she looks relaxed, even dreamy, and she's smiling. She doesn't verbally respond to his arrival, but Stanley makes up for it.

"Well, well," he booms. "Chief Medical Officer McCoy! I haven't seen you since the reception. Did I miss an appointment? If I didn't it wasn't for lack of trying. At my age, these damn physicals tell me much more than I want to know, and it's never better than the last one."

McCoy laughs. He's more than twenty years younger that the geologist but already feels exactly the same way. "No sir, no missed appointment for you. It's close to lunch break, and I was thinking of stealing your lab mate for some grub and gabbing, if it's not an inconvenience."

Stanley glances at the console screen to note the time. "No problem at all, Doctor. Feel free to steal her, so long as you return her in good or better condition. At her age, there's always hope for improvement."

"There is, yes," McCoy agrees. "What say you, Ensign? Hungry for coffee and conversation?"

"That would be wonderful, Leonard," Anon replies, her smile widening. "I have so much to tell you! And lunch would be good, too. My eating has been kind of erratic the last few days."

Stanley's jollity ceases and he gawks at her ; he sees the looks that pass between them. "Well, goddam, Rock Head. This is your lover? Son of a gun!"

McCoy feels his face blushing red, but he is speechless. Anon hadn't told her lab leader that they were together? He assumed everyone on the Enterprise knew every last gossipy detail of every single personal relationship. So, Stanley knew she has a lover but she never let on who.

All this rushes through his head as he tries to respond in some cool, self-possessed way; once again Anon has thrown him for a loss. No matter – she is full of herself. "Yes, Iron Man, that's right. I hope the two of you can get better acquainted. I think you'd like each other." And she slips her hand through his arm and walks, nay, drags him out of the room. Stanley is still catching flies as the door whooshes shut behind them.

After they enter the corridor Anon slides her hand down McCoy's arm until they are holding hands, then she turns and prances backward, grabbing his other hand as well and lifting her arms high. Crew members dodge around them as they process; McCoy is too astonished at her levity to be embarrassed. She is downright giddy. As they pass a less-trafficked corridor, he ducks in, pulling her with him. The last time he did this they were both troubled; now he is eager to know the source of her elation, although he can guess.

"I wanted to let you know we're in orbit around …" he begins.

"Around Rrannimm!" Anon calls out, rolling the Rs and pitching the other vowels and consonants musically. "That's what my people sing my world. I've been listening for days, Leonard. I've learned so much my brain is exploding."

She throws herself against him. "Have I been neglecting you, my love? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. Guess what, Leonard, Mr. Spock found my home! I have to tell him, but I wanted to tell you first. Well, second, I already told Janay but of course that was because we were in each other's heads so that doesn't really count as telling her. Oh, Leonard!"

"Soli, you have to contain yourself. You could be mistaken. We need to match neural frequencies. We have to do DNA matching." Lord, listen to him; he's turned into Spock.

"The people of Rrannimm. Each of us has a song, a song of our still-living ancestors, of our sisters, cousins, and aunts, of our skills, our mates." Again, she sings Rrannimm, the name of her planet.

No, the song, she said. People have songs instead of names, too?

"My people. Look, Leonard." A flood of images and sounds and smells pummels his mind. The images: all the people look exactly like Anon, except for their dark skin color from sun exposure.

But their hair color and texture, their eye color, their stature – all of them may as well be identical twins, triplets, sextuplets. How do they tell each other apart? But he already knows the answer to that because of the voices in his head. Not speaking but singing – an aural decoupage of songs on top of songs, lyrics he doesn't recognize but whose meanings he absorbs easily.

And the smells – they bring him back home to Georgia and his farm. Milk squeezed into a wooden bucket, fresh eggs in the nest, wool fibers, the good earth bringing forth a bounty of fruits and vegetables. He inhales deeply, makes himself dizzy, and then Anon pulls out of his head. Her eyes are bright and unfocused.

She's intoxicated, McCoy realizes. Now he knows what Stanley must have been saying when he walked in on them. In the mental state he is witnessing, Anon would have been utterly incompetent in lab.

"Is that not amazing!" She lightly slaps his chest and pushes herself away, only to come right back into a tight embrace, rocking left and right, back and forth. Her open sensuality draws him in, and he feels himself responding. He places his hands on her shoulders and gently pries her away. Her head snaps back and she stares at him; he raises his eyebrow quizzically.

"Now is not a good time, Soli. It's impossible. But you know that."

"So much sharing, Leonard. Of everything. Everything. I've been … aroused for days. Come away with me. Please." She pulls at his shirt and fumbles with his trousers. Damn, he's in trouble.

"Lord, there's nothing I'd like better. You'll just have to hang on. Wait! Stop! Look, Darlin'." He drags her to a wall console, jabs at keys, speaks his name for ID. "See? I just reserved Shuttle Bay for tonight, pulled rank again. Okay? But not now."

Anon shakes her head, stomps her foot, pounds his chest, a wild and stubborn filly, but he can see she's working to suppress the most intense of her exuberant, shared experiences. A pity, he reflects, since they're obviously good ones. He shakes his own head.

"Let's go." His voice sounds normal to his ears, though he still fights his own tangled feelings. "Captain Kirk plans to send an away team. Even though you can't be a part of it, you should hear what Spock has in mind. And I suspect you have a great deal to contribute. Just keep it clean, okay?"

The corners of Anon's mouth turn up, and her eyes widen. "Of course, Leonard. When have I ever not?"

Anon twitches, and Andersen's voice penetrates McCoy's mind. _Where have you been, Boyfriend? She's been making me crazy, too, and there isn't a damned thing I can do about it. For geezum freaking sake, or whatever the hell her weird new saying is, get on this!_

McCoy grins, goofy and intoxicated himself. _I will, Andersen. Back off._ He grabs Anon's hand; they head to the conference room.

This time Scott has been added to the attendees; Anon is present as an observer. McCoy and Anon unclasp their hands before entering, and they seat themselves formally, not as a couple. McCoy nods to her, then to Spock and Scott, and they turn their attention to Kirk.

"Thank you for coming," Kirk opens. "I'll turn the bulk of this meeting over to Mr. Spock, as we will be discussing an away team focused on science."

"Thank you, Captain." The solemnity is killing McCoy; this was a highly-anticipated and longed-for mission of discovery, and his own inclination is to celebrate, exuberantly and with plenty of booze. He sighs; it is clearly not to be. He hears Anon breathing hard – no, she is panting

"We have achieved orbit around the M-class planet, an inhabited world, Prime Directive applies due to the primitive culture that has been observed. Dr. McCoy, Ensign Anon, you should know that instruments have detected the same emanations Dr. Chenoweth and I previously recorded during our shuttle craft experiments. We can be confident these people have the same abilities to communicate neurally; we will perform further tests to be certain they are of the same species."

Spock presses a key, and a series of recorded videos of native activities displays on the screen. He lets it play long enough for his fellow officers to take it in. McCoy saw this and much more through Anon's receptive communications, but it is all new to Kirk and Scott.

He had thought he was prepared, but without the sounds and smells, McCoy experiences even greater shock at the degree of similarity among the natives in villages around the world. Visually identical: the same skin color, the same hair, the same facial features.

Height cannot be ascertained from satellite view, but the women appear to be the same height as each other, and the men are a bit taller, but again, do not differ noticeably from each other. Aging skin is impossible to discern from orbital view, but only a few white-haired individuals are observed. Those in the recordings who are identifiably old are all males.

All are brown-skinned, with long, red hair, piled high if they are carrying babies, but if not, it is sometimes braided, sometimes loose and held in place by a headband. As for secondary mature characteristics, the hair on the rest of their bodies is nothing but peach fuzz; no pubic bush, no thick hair growth on chest, back., arms, or calves. The men are significantly more brawny than the women, but all are lean and muscular – apparently no communities have extra food capacity that would allow the amassing of fat tissue. Healthy enough, but nothing to spare.

The glimpses of their clothing show the same pattern; they all dress alike. They are wearing what appears in the video to be woven cloth, with panels that crisscross the chest and back for easy carrying of tools and babies; at the waist the panels wrap around their buttocks and knot in front to form a protective loin cloth. Although all the clothing is of a style, they are dyed different colors, rich reds, purples, browns, greens, and uniquely decorated with beads, feathers, fur, grasses, and twigs.

Once the meeting participants have had a chance to study all the footage, Spock picks up the thread.

"Despite our concerns about the source and purpose of the energy bursts, we did not experience any such bursts directed at the Enterprise. Before we moved safely to our current position opposite the source, we were able to take pictures and measurements, and I can confirm that the energy source matches the anomaly projected by the Ktak when they, excuse me, when, er, Keeper abducted the Ensign approximately thirty-three years ago."

McCoy feels justified now in having taken Spock to task earlier; Anon would not have taken kindly or calmly to the description of Keeper as a scientist, especially in her current agitated state.

Spock continues, "All our readings indicate that we are undetected, therefore we can proceed with our away team mission."

"They know we're here, Mr. Spock." McCoy is not surprised by Anon's interjection, but Kirk and Spock are aghast. Whether they are more shocked at the nitty-gritty of her statement or at the fact that she felt free to interrupt her superior officer, McCoy can't know.

Spock shows exasperation, as much as a Vulcan can. "You were forbidden to communicate with the inhabitants, Ensign Anon. Did you disobey my orders?"

McCoy knows the answer, knew the answer ten days ago, but the question was put to Anon.

"I have not spoken to anyone on the planet, Mr. Spock, but I have been listening to their communications with each other since Dr. McCoy informed me of the purpose of the Enterprise's exploration of this region of space. Listening was not forbidden."

McCoy visibly relaxes; Anon, despite her jittery energy and glassy eyes, is handling herself effectively so far, and she declares, "They have been aware of our presence since we were at the limits of their abilities to receive, and they have sought a response from us for almost as long."

Both Kirk and Spock have visceral reactions to this; but Spock's is stronger, and he speaks. "I had that sense, Ensign, but did not trust it. Even a Vulcan can engage in wishful thinking." He stares at Anon, ignores McCoy's self-satisfied grin. "I will bear your comment in mind, Ensign. Please feel free to offer any other insights you deem relevant."

Naturally, Anon immediately clams up again, so Spock continues. "Revising my previous statement, since the anomaly didn't detect our presence and attack us, we can proceed with our away team mission."

Anon interrupts again. "Wait." This time Kirk is visibly disconcerted, looking from McCoy to Spock and back again. He wants to reassert control over the proceedings yet knows he too needs the information she is presenting. Not being an arrogant man, he leaves it to Spock.

Anon had paused briefly but picks up her analysis. "The anomaly is the instrument of the gods. The gods are the Ktak. The Enterprise's arrival is the third time a ship containing persons has arrived at Rrannimm." She sings the lyric that represents the planet; McCoy feels a thrill; The other officers are simply more confused.

"The previous two times were the Ktak. The first was credited with building the temple. The Rrannimmese had no name for this Ktak except God. The temple was a gift from the gods to protect them. They had entered this dangerous realm and were being battered by stone. They suffered many deaths. The gods delivered the temple, it flared brightly, again and again. There were no more deaths from stones. Until now. The temple no longer keeps the people safe. It has allowed stones to fall to ground again."

McCoy looks at Kirk and Spock; they are mesmerized. McCoy recognizes that these are lyrics, songs, oral histories that Anon has picked up from her listening. He has no doubt that they reflect the truth, but Anon has drifted far from her analytical science training.

He attempts to retrieve her. "Knowing the Ktak, this was part of the plan. They wanted the Rrannimmese (he cannot sing it properly; it falls flat – no matter) to trust them completely."

Anon shakes her head, clearing it, looks at McCoy gratefully. "Yes, that's right. A ruse, I guess. They do that a lot." She relapses into silence.

Now that the spell is broken, Kirk is merely annoyed. "Please stop disrupting this meeting, Ensign Anon, or I shall have to ask you to leave. This is a science mission, not a history class. You are here as a courtesy to Dr. McCoy only. I insist Mr. Spock be allowed to present the away team mission without further interruption."

"Yes, sir, Captain." Anon breaks eye contact and turns her head away.

Spock has something else in mind. "I beg your forbearance, Captain. I now recognize that my analysis is incomplete due to a lack of data. I would like Ensign Anon's facts and opinions to inform my recommendations."

Kirk leans forward, pissed at this redirection. He clasps his hands in front of him on the tabletop, so tense that his knuckles turn white. "By all means, Mr. Spock. Go ahead."

Spock watches Anon still averting her gaze. He breaks the silence. "The first time a ship came was the construction of the anomaly. The temple. What was the second?"

Anon's eyes immediately cloud over; More than a minute passes before she can speak, and her voice is strained, almost unrecognizable. "The second time was when I was abducted. The Rrannimmese knew there was a ship carrying a god. The god took me away. This was a catastrophe for Rrannimm, but I don't yet know why. If I had asked I might know, but I just listened. I'm sorry, Mr. Spock. There is great pain among the people from my kidnapping that goes beyond the loss my parents felt. The explanation is … hidden. Unspoken. Unsung. I'll keep listening to try to learn what it was. How could the stealing of a three-year-old child have consequences for the whole people?"

Spock puzzles over her words, then asks, "The whole people? Our scans have indicated that people live in groups of a few hundred each, scattered over many kilometers. The usual understanding of this kind of settlement is that there are many competing tribes."

"No." Anon responds without hesitation. "Many villages, one people. No competition between them. They battle the elements, not each other."

Kirk the warrior rejects the concept. "The most unified people I know of are the Bolians, the people who took you in. Even the Bolians compete with each other, for status, for achievement. Their culture rejects the idea of inferior Bolians, but they do celebrate and honor the most successful. I've never heard of a species that doesn't do that."

Anon shakes her head. "You could be right, but I didn't find anything like that, sir. In terms of the different villages, whether near or far they all consider themselves a family, one people. There are village leaders, yes, and there is a shaman and other healers. Those were the only high-status people I could identify, and they seemed not to be inherited positions, nor fought for. I believe they are chosen on the basis of skill. I'm sorry. I should ask an anthropologist for guidance I think, so I know what to look for." Her eyes have cleared over the course of this monologue, and her voice has steadied.

Spock busies himself tapping on his keyboard; he looks up as he finishes and says, "I have requested both an anthropologist and a xenologist for the away team. They could well provide some valuable expertise in that area. So, is the Enterprise the third ship to visit the planet Rrannimm?"

He pronounces it without inflection. Anon winces, and Spock notices. "I have pronounced it wrong, Ensign? Please advise."

In an odd musical see-saw, Anon sings, "Interjection. Correction. Rejection. Inflection. Projection. Inspection. Reflection. For the people of the world. Rrannimm. The Rrannimmese. The people. My people."

Never has she seemed more alien to McCoy. Her eyes are bright, feverish. Andersen was right. Where had he been while she was leaving the only world she had ever known and embarking on a voyage to these strangers who were her own but not her own? Kirk looks at him in alarm.

"What's wrong with her, Bones? Is she high?"

"I don't know, Jim. She may be, but not the way you think."

Anon explodes, "Not this time, Block Head!"

Kirk stares at McCoy in horror and rises from his chair aggressively. Spock raises an eyebrow. "She seems to be in communication with Lieutenant Andersen, Captain." He at least has maintained his composure.

McCoy glares at Spock, so very not helpful, then appeals to Anon. "Soli. Look at me. Talk to me. Please explain."

Half of Anon's face smiles. The other half is lifeless. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Janay told me to say 'there's nothing wrong; it's normal for my species.' You know. Like when my eyes cloud over. But I don't think this is normal for my species. Not in any way. I'm a mess."

McCoy leans over his console. "McCoy to Sickbay. Nurse Chapel, please bring my portable med kit to Captain Kirk's ready room immediately."

"Yes, Doctor," answers the nurse's voice from the console.

McCoy reaches for Anon's wrist, attempting to feel her pulse through her glove. It's faint with the extra layer, but it is clearly racing. He pulls her to face him and starts to put his free hand beneath her nostrils.

"No touch, no touch," she cries, and she whips her head this way and that away from his hand.

"I won't touch you. You look feverish, Soli. Just exhale on my hand so I can get a sense of your temperature by your breath." McCoy keeps his hand extended; Anon turns back to allow close proximity of his palm to her nose.

She giggles. "You old country doctor, you."

"That's 'old-fashioned,' dear. Not old. I'm an old-fashioned country doctor."

Anon giggles again. "That's right. So many varieties of meaning, I can't keep track unless it's in a song. Lots of songs about old, almost none about old-fashioned." She breathes heavily into his hand; her eyes glitter. "Most Terrans would rather be old than old-fashioned. But not you. Isn't that odd?"

"No fever." McCoy states. There is nothing to be done until Chapel arrives with his med kit. The officers wait it out as Anon rocks, her gloved hands gripping McCoy's.

The chime sounds; Kirk calls out, "Come." Anon throws her hands in the air, releasing McCoy and slapping at invisible gnats.

McCoy is at the door before it has finished sliding open. Nurse Chapel hands him the portable med kit. McCoy takes it from her apologetically. "I'm sorry, Nurse, you can't stay. Thank you for coming so promptly." Chapel looks uneasily at Anon but exits the room without comment.

McCoy has already unhooked the tricorder from the bulk of the med kit and aimed it at Anon. Confirmed no fever, but also confirmed heart rate seriously elevated, breathing rapid and shallow. Whatever is going on in her brain is having a wide-spread physiological effect.

He pulls out a hypo and loads it with a mild sedative. He begins to explain, "this will help you feel more like yourself." But she panics and flails wildly, until he catches her eye and says, "Get in my head, dear heart. You can trust me." He feels her in his head, seeking reassurance.

 _I won't give you a full dose, just a little and maybe a bit more until you are in control_. She relaxes then, allowing the hypo-spray to do its work. He keeps the tricorder on her, and when he is satisfied with her physical state, he suggests, oh so carefully, "You might want to close off your people from your head. You seem a bit overwhelmed."

Anon stutters, "I don't … Everybody always … I just … Never …" Her shoulders hunch up, her head sinks. McCoy waits, ignoring the captain and the chief science officer, focused only on the struggling Rrannimmese woman before him. There's a name for her, he realizes. At long last she is not Unique but one of many just like her. They have much to talk about.

When the tranquilizer has made its full impact, and Anon has successfully shut off the thousands of voices in her head, she sinks back in her chair and closes her eyes. "Thank you," she mutters.

McCoy, pleased with himself and his treatment, looks expectantly at his fellow officers. They look back at him, also full of expectations. Hmm. Got it. So, it's on him, is it?

"Soli?" She opens her eyes, no longer glittering, nor clouded. She is with him. At least he hopes so. He muddles on. "Three ships visited your planet. We are the third ship. Do your people believe the gods have returned?"

Anon frowns as she ponders the question, and finally gives an answer that is prose not poetry, as though the incoherence had never happened. "I don't think so, no. Keeper was here by herself for a long time, maybe a year or more, and did not far speak directly with them even once. Still they knew she was a god. With the crew of the Enterprise, they don't know what to think. We have arrived, in great numbers. But nobody on the Enterprise has anything to say. It's confusing to them, and they have discussed it. They have reached no conclusions yet."

"But you're here …" McCoy begins.

"They don't know about me. I've listened but shut myself off. Those were my orders, and I carried them out." McCoy looks at Kirk and Spock, and shrugs. What do they want from him, from Anon?

Spock prods her, trying for anything may be of assistance. "The away team. I plan to include a zoologist, a botanist, a meteorologist, and, as you have requested, two social scientists. Dr. McCoy will be the medical officer on site, I will be the away team leader. Have you any further recommendations, Ensign?"

McCoy sees Kirk frown at the lapse in convention that Spock is allowing, indeed encouraging. McCoy is both surprised and grateful that Spock readily cedes his own place to an underling. On the other hand, Spock has never had the idiotic human pride that would lead him to run roughshod over someone with more direct knowledge or experience.

Anon, deep in thought, finally responds to Spock's question.

"What will you have them do?" A question answered with a question. It is Spock's turn to frown, and he cedes still more authority.

"What would you recommend?"

Anon replies quickly, immediately focused. "Have the life scientists set up cameras and microphones, record and transmit. As close as possible to the center of my village; that's important, and I can tell you which one it is. All records should be analyzed by field and lab scientists, and the anthropologist and xenologist, and also too by Uhura because she's the best linguist on the Enterprise, maybe anywhere. Have an engineer analyze the musical structure of their language. Barilo would be my first choice. Don't ask me; I understand the language because I'm in their heads, not because I have deciphered lyrics and notes and modes. I will want to review what Barilo finds out; it will help me learn the finer points of the Rrannimmese songs. I mean, language."

Spock nods in assent, but otherwise makes no response. McCoy realizes that Spock at some point had started recording the meeting; Spock needs something to fall back on, to listen to a second or third time. It's well past just a conversation.

Anon advises, "Don't transport the away team down. Arrive in a shuttle. It will help distinguish us from the Ktak – we are people, not gods. We live in a village in the sky. Keep that concept in your heads; it's something they can understand."

Anon pauses, eyes staring into middle difference. Finally, she concludes, "Study the temple. Study the temple as much as you can. There's something wrong about it, but I don't know what. I'll try to find out. But I promise," and she looks at each senior officer in turn, "this time I will be less engaged. I apologize for my lapse in judgment. For my many lapses in protocol."

"Engineering to Commander Scott." The interruption is a welcome relief but also cause for alarm.

"Scott here. What is it, Laddy?"

"I've been doing the analysis you asked for, Commander. The rock that was blasted – the vectors confirm it had been on a collision course with the planet. Judging from the high level of debris and activity – you know, the reason we've had our shields up during the entire flight – this planet should look like the Earth's moon. I can only think whatever's been doing the blasting has been effective. In the past, that is to say, but not now."

Kirk and Spock exchange glances; Anon's head is bowed, her eyes closed.

The engineer's voice floats from the speaker. "We've done scans of the surface, and it looks like there have been a large number of impact craters regularly. I asked Commander Stanley to take a look at it – he figures the impacts have been within fewer than ten years."

The engineer pauses, and when he continues his voice is noticeably tight even over the speaker system. "Commander, it looks like … there was a direct hit on a village, sir. Recently. There must have been casualties. We're doing the analysis on asteroids within five hundred thousand kilometers, and there is a monster on direct track to hit. Judging from the blast we observed, the timing and all that, this rock should have been destroyed by now if the anomaly is the protective device we've been assuming it is. But it's been still."

"Spit it out, Scotty," Kirk growls. "Are you saying these people are in danger?"

"Indeed, I am, Cap'n. Grave danger." Kirk grips the edge of the table, then barks his orders.

"Scotty, prepare to break up the asteroid ourselves. Power, angle, distance. Spock, Bones, we will still send an away team to … to the planet … to Rrannimm." There'll be no singing from Kirk. "Via Shuttle Testudo. But it will of necessity be abbreviated. Follow the ensign's recommendations for data gathering, figure out the coordinates of the village she wants. Damn our being on the wrong side of the planet – it cripples us. Have I missed anything, Mr. Spock?"

A rhetorical question, but Spock ponders it, and turns to Anon. "Ensign, your cognitive abilities and your judgment appear to have been compromised by excessive interaction with the planet's inhabitants."

Anon gazes steadily at Spock; his next words are predictable. "Despite our reliance on your information during this meeting, I order you to refrain from any further contact, whether receiving or transmitting, with the people here. You will make no contact with any members of the away team. I need your head to be clear and unbiased. Do you understand? Captain Kirk, are we in agreement?"

Kirk and Anon nod simultaneously. Spock had planned his words carefully. Kirk revises his earlier remark. "I stand corrected. Have I missed anything else, Mr. Spock?"

"I don't believe so, Captain. I will contact you if I have any further concerns."

"Good. Make it so."

 _What the hell, Soli! A little bit of exuberance and you're cut right out. I mean, the horniness was tough, but only for me. You were fine otherwise. Weren't you? Talk to me, sister. I'm not wrong. Am I wrong?_

 _You're wrong, Janay. I wasn't exuberant. I was crazed. I never listened to so many people at once. And it was for days on end. I couldn't sort it out. I was wicked overconfident. I hope I can learn to keep my head clear, but …_

 _Fiddlesticks!_

 _Fiddlesticks?_

 _Yes, fiddlesticks! You have the clearest mind of anyone I ever met, on Earth or in Starfleet. Okay, sometimes, well, a lot of times I don't know what you are talking about, but when you explain it's always perfectly clear. Mostly clear. Anyway, I trust you, even if I have no clue what you're talking about. Soli, these are your people, your species, your family. First and foremost, you have the right to immerse yourself in every aspect of their culture and their way of being. Sister, it's your right! I'm so happy you are part of my family legally, but this is the best thing that ever happened to you, and …_

 _Third best._

 _Third best?_

 _You. Leonard. Rrannimm. First. Second. Third._

 _Goddammit, Rock Head! You're doing it again. Are do you trying to make me cry? Just stop_.


	15. Chapter 15

**Section 4:** **Schicksalslied**

 **Chapter 2: Starman**

McCoy starts his nervous jogging-in-place routine. The away team has entered the Shuttle Testudo. Named after a creation myth – that's got to be why Spock chose it. They will land near but out of direct sight of the anomaly. The temple. Anon said that's how the natives, no, the people look at it.

His job is the least interesting of the away team, but typical of the doctor-on-duty role. Hang around, medical tricorder strapped around his neck and at the ready if there are any injuries or accidents. Superfluous except when you're the most important away team member. Which happens one in fifty missions.

Not to mention he's pissed off that Anon wasn't allowed any contact – neither with the Rrannimmese nor with himself. This was supposed to be a moment to savor, to share, not to be isolated.

The only saving grace is that Scott had corralled him into photographing and measuring the temple from every side and corner, loaning McCoy his own engineering tricorder to do so. It has no strap, so he carries it. Normally it would hook onto a belt.

With every engineer flat out preparing for the emergency mission to destroy the oncoming monster asteroid – what did Scotty call it? The MOAB, Mother Of All Boulders? Was he joking? – he nevertheless wants at least to be able to study the configuration of the temple, and McCoy promised he would take pictures and measure dimensions and angles and whatever else he, a non-engineer, could imagine would interest the chief engineer.

The Testudo exits the Enterprise shuttle bay, makes its circuitous route to Rrannimm's temple, lands. At the opening of the Testudo's door, the away team members take stock of the alien planet.

Those from Earth immediately look up. Always, they compare the exquisite blue of their home planet's sky to all others. Rrannimm's sky is a deeper shade of blue than Earth's, therefore by their narrow definition not as beautiful. However, the atmosphere quickly floods them with energy, confirming McCoy's long-ago speculation of a higher O2 content.

The rich blue of the sky exaggerates the contrasting colors of the clouds: yellow, red, orange. Not clouds per se; the meteorologist describes them as dust maelstroms. There are no visible rain clouds at this time.

The entire away team is hypnotized by another atmospheric phenomenon: the dramatic performance of the aurora borealis, now above, now to the east, to the south: even the non-astronomers in the team recognize the radiation effects from surrounding nebular activity, both beautiful and disquieting.

Fully acclimated, the away team fans out. Their tasks need to be completed as quickly as possible so as to return to the Testudo without accosting any native people.

As for the temple, it stands in the open but is surrounded by a sparse stand of stunted trees; grasses ring the edge of the glade. The soil is pale, appears poor in nutrients; Mitchell the botanist takes two samples, one for her department, the other for the geo lab.

The away team botanists quickly find and take samples from the water source for the woods, a winding brook that appears to have been dammed in some places, dug deeper in others; the Rrannimmese people apparently force the brook to stay within its defined borders. Hopefully the anthropologists will infer a reason; they make their way to the village coordinates to gather data.

None of the Rrannimmese people are nearby, but the calls and cries of the animals more than make up for the lack of contact with the natives. Some of the noises are distant, some from the trees, some from the brook; the biologists follow their protocol of observation and recording.

Before he even realizes what has happened, McCoy finds himself alone in the clearing surrounding the temple. He tries to put together the day's rapid series of events, and thinks, of course, of Anon.

His poor Soli. She had gone from focused to fuzzy after the hypo, when she tried to explain that villagers scatter during the day. Spock didn't believe her until Scotty showed him scanning data, limited as it was, and focused on the "wrong" side of the planet.

Sure enough, villages are virtually abandoned while the people farm the fields, gather nuts and seeds, fish from the few productive streams and ponds, milk their "goats" and shear their "sheep." Processing, weaving, cooking, etc. take place first thing in the morning and late in the day. All in all, hard evidence of Anon's statement that the Rrannimmese don't feel the need to defend against marauders.

The away team's assignment is to penetrate the village and set up cameras, microphones, anemometers, spectrometers, and the like, while the homes are deserted; they are to track the farmers and gatherers and set up more recorders; they are to observe without being observed every activity the Rrannimmese engage in (though McCoy is confident there is no such thing as "unobserved" on Rrannimm).

He, McCoy, is to hang around the anomaly, thus his availability to make the recordings, take material scrapings and samples, use Scott's tricorder to graph the angles of every square centimeter of the thing, and … whatever else. He's doing it but he is bored stupid.

The time Anon spent in his head prepared him for the various calls of the many animals. They alternate – chirps, bellows, caws, barks. Different as they are, they make him feel at home. He has always, since he was a child on Earth, loved the vocalization of different species trying to impress each other and claim territory. And as is true at home in Georgia, he hears more animals than he can see. Whether concealed in the treetops or huddled in the undergrowth, the calls pierce the air.

He has taken numerous pictures of all sides of the anomaly. He is not educated in the right sciences to be able to tell whether the anomaly – he keeps forgetting to call it the temple – is made of stone, plastics, or some other material. He had taken the samples; maybe Anon should have requested a geologist on the away team to make the right kinds of observations.

Then again, maybe if she had, Kirk and Spock would have assumed she was trying to worm herself onto the away team and disregarded all her other suggestions. The only other qualified person would have been Stanley, and he is not yet physically up to field scientist fitness standards, though he has improved since he came aboard.

Not McCoy's problem. He is a critter guy, not a plant guy, but the familiar and alien nature of the woods – if you can call them that – beckon him. The trees have thick leaves and horizontally ridged trunks. Looking closer, leaves are succulent, the bark is thick but soft, easily chipped by prodding with a fingernail. Could you extract water from those thick leaves? Give it up, McCoy, that's the botanists' job.

Looking back at the temple from the edge of the woods, McCoy admires its smooth lines and clear functionality. An antenna or such like stretches so high and is so bulky, even McCoy can recognize its potential to do violence. And then there's the unknown material that makes up the bulk of the temple but which is underground. On their shuttle descent, Spock scanned the area around the temple, and found that beneath the main structure is more of that substance – Anon had said it was a form of carbon? She listens to him much more closely than he listens to her; he must try harder – that is impenetrable to their equipment.

Back on Reynos 3, the away team log had showed that Anon rejected Andersen's idea that it was a coincidence that the same substance Anon recalled from her childhood was what had been discovered on Reynos 3. Once again, her analysis has proved correct. No coincidence: The Ktak have made widespread use of the element. Somebody really should study how she figures stuff out.

The temple material, the antenna, the impenetrable carbon – those he can't really care about. He's fascinated by the drawings along the top of the temple. They repeat on all four sides, in the same order. Stylized figures, let's say a bird, a mammal, a maybe-kinda-sorta reptile, a plant. He reaches up and traces the patterns, one after the other. There is neither appearance nor feel of weathering.

Three animals and a plant. Hmm. A plant. He looks around the temple and sees clumps of grasses that resemble the drawings on the temple. Ah. The grasses. If he can't spot any of the animals, at least he can take a good look at the plants. They can't hide or run away.

He strays a bit farther to photograph the specific plant life; Anon and her blue shirt buddies place just as much importance on flora as on fauna, and he has come to respect that, even if, at the end of the day, plant life to him is just a source of food or medicine. But there it is, right in front of him.

He Is more observant than he used to be. He realizes that most of the plants around the temple are drought-tolerant grasses. After he photographs them, he picks a few blades to examine more closely and compare to Earth varieties with which he is familiar.

While fidgeting with the grass, he looks again at the temple and climbs the steps, taken by an aspect he had not previously noted. On just one side of the temple, there is a single slab – no, now that he has climbed up the steps to the temple he sees that it is four slabs together in a block. He photographs the slab from several angles.

McCoy steps atop the four-stone slab; it is only a few centimeters higher but places him at the uppermost point in the area. Seems the highest point in Rrannimm is artificially constructed.

He twists himself to peer at the antenna from this spot. No, he's not going to climb it – he'll lay claim to the highest spot right where he is, thank you very much. Before she was abducted, Anon had been set on one of the four platforms surrounding the pyramidal aspect of the temple, maybe this very one. He doesn't recall seeing the slabs he's standing on.

The grove of trees blocks his view, but there wouldn't be much to see anyway. Rrannimm, at least around here, is very flat; he hadn't noticed until he climbed the temple's steps to the platform. He takes more pictures.

Okay, now he really is bored. Nobody to talk to, an uninteresting landscape. He sets down Scott's tricorder to play with the grasses he gathered. So much like home.

"Mr. Spock!" The yellow shirt monitoring the status of the away team is in a panic.

"Spock here." The chief science officer is his usual calm self; it doesn't soothe the yellow shirt at all.

"Dr. McCoy has vanished! I've been watching all the scans of the away team. He has disappeared."

"Have you run a diagnostic?" Spock, like most blue shirts, always feels the need to ask the obvious questions of the yellow shirts. Their motivation is not like that of the scientists, to the point where if he were human he would describe his reaction as frustration.

"No, sir. Wait a moment." Spock refrains from sighing; it would be un-Vulcan. "The equipment is functioning properly, sir. He was there, and then he wasn't. I can't find a trace of him anywhere."

"I'm on my way." Spock ponders whether to call the away team back but decides against it. Chances are the yellow shirt is in error. Still, he detours to pass the anomaly on his return to the shuttle, and sure enough, there is no sign of McCoy. He quickens his pace.

What the hell happened?

McCoy is sprawled on a hard surface in a well-lit room, his head throbbing. He touches his temple. Blood, and plenty of it. And he is soon going to have a goose egg, right there on that very spot.

He sees stars and is unsteady, shaking, almost certainly concussed. He attempts to pull his way to a stand using the structures – cabinets? – next to him. Grabbing at the horizontal surfaces above him is his second mistake.

His body arches, muscles spasming, as a 4-ampere electrical current courses through his body. His hands burn, his bowels loosen, his bladder releases, his stomach retches, but he is all unawares. He flies across the room and lands in a heap, unmoving.

"Spock to Enterprise."

"Uhura here. How can I help you, Mr. Spock?" Uhura is purely professional on duty.

"Connect me to the Captain, please, Lieutenant." Spock is calm in his words also, but his heart is pounding.

Only a moment passes, but Spock's heart beats at least a hundred times.

"Spock, that was quick. Congratulations on an efficient away team mission. You're satisfied?"

"No, Captain. The mission is not complete. An away team member is missing and unaccounted for."

"Explain."

Even the unflappable Spock can't explain objectively. "Dr. McCoy. He was on the personnel scans, he was being tracked accurately. I have checked the equipment myself, Captain. He stopped registering at 29:23 of the mission. I … have no working theories as to why."

Kirk's radar is engaged. "Mr. Spock, as you well know, we have only 26:04 … Dammit, Spock we have less than a half an hour by Scotty's calculations before we have to leave to intercept the MOAB. What the hell happened to Bones?" No blame, no blame, Kirk chants to himself. But what did they overlook?

"Captain, I am continuing to cross check our instrument readings. Can I assume you received the data showing the same mineral on Rrannimm (Spock sings it correctly) as on Reynos 3? If he has entered the area beneath the anomaly, what Anon called the temple, we cannot locate him, neither to assess his well-being nor to retrieve him by transport."

Kirk did receive the data but gave no particular import to it. Why would he? According to Ensign Anon, this is the third time this mysterious element has shown itself; according to Enterprise research it's the second. It directly led to Andersen's death on Reynos 3; he is confident it is concealing McCoy's whereabouts on Rrannimm. However the cursed planet's name is pronounced.

McCoy was his first friend in Starfleet. His friend of longest standing in his life. His heart is pounding in counterpoint to Spock's rapid rhythm. Scotty's deadline has been extended indefinitely.

"Keep looking Spock. Slice and dice his every movement at every moment. Find him and get him back."

Kirk's orders had been followed to the letter, but all efforts have dead-ended. The Enterprise is already forty minutes past what Commander Scott had determined was the longest they could safely wait to destroy the oncoming asteroid, and still there is no sign of McCoy. He enters the dark realm he had been avoiding. "Mr. Spock. Has Ensign Anon been notified of the, uh, the problem? If so, have you asked her for assistance in locating the doctor?"

There is a long pause. "Negative, Captain. To both questions. With your permission I shall bring her into the loop, as they say."

"Make it so, Mr. Spock."

 _Soli, stop screaming. You can't help if you're out of control. Stop!_

Spock is still speaking, in calm, measured words. "We are aware of your emotional investment in Dr. McCoy, and we would not ask you to search for him neurally if we had not already exhausted all the sensors at our disposal to do so."

Andersen continues to wrestle with Anon's hysteria, to no avail. Internally Anon is indeed screaming, but all Spock sees is that she has collapsed to the floor, her nictitating membranes closed, and she has drawn her knees in. Spock assumes, correctly, that she is in a highly emotional state.

 _This is why I hate everyone! Now that it's too late to help, they want me to look for him, but he's gone, Janay, he's gone!_ Spock, stoic, waits for her emotions to run their course. He doesn't know how much depends on Andersen.

 _If you want to blame someone, blame H. The a-hole could fix everything, you know, omnipotence and all, but chooses not to. It makes a better story. The humans and the Vulcan in this disaster care about you. They care about McCoy. Give them credit, Soli. They love you, they love The Boyfriend, get on board! Soli! Come on, quit yelling! You're hurting my brain._

Anon gets on board, breathing heavily but no longer shrieking at Andersen. She gasps, "I've looked for him, Mr. Spock. I don't hear him. Do you think he's dead?"

Spock is actually relieved that Anon can ask a direct question. He is weary of years of humans tiptoeing around the things they most care about, all the while lambasting him for being cold and logical. A direct question can be directly answered.

"I have no information in that regard; therefore, anything I might say about his well-being would be mere speculation. I asked you to search for him, but his unavailability tells us nothing about his condition."

Spock notes that Anon's energy has dissipated. "Now, Ensign, I must ask you to stop looking for Dr. McCoy. As you must remember from the last meeting, the trajectory of a large object endangers a major section of the planet Rrannimm. There could be deaths and injuries."

Spock pauses. He has learned that Anon could be more or less helpful, depending on her mental state. He can be patient enough to wait for her to absorb the facts. When she finally makes eye contact again, her nictitating membranes have receded, and he feels confident in proceeding.

"The Enterprise will leave Rrannimm's orbit in order to destroy the object. The away team has been withdrawn. Neither Captain Kirk nor I assume that Dr. McCoy has died, there being no evidence of such. Am I clear? I do have a theory as to what happened to Dr. McCoy."

Spock waits. If Anon falls into her closed state, she is of no use. But she is steady. Andersen deserves all the credit, but he doesn't know that. If he did he wouldn't care. The point is, Anon is with the program.

"We are certain that Dr. McCoy went into the anomaly, where our instruments cannot penetrate. We believe he was injured, such that he cannot respond to you. Assuming he is not mortally injured, and that is my assumption, that is my assumption, Ensign, our main concern must be this: how did he enter the anomaly? The device is not working reliably; he entered it. If he gained access to it, then we can gain access to it, and then we can affect repairs, that is, we can restore the functions that protect Rrannimm." Spock waits for a reaction; there is none so he adds, "And we can rescue Dr. McCoy. There has been no energy discharge from the anomaly that might indicate it had injured him."

Anon has not responded in any visible way to his monologue. Spock would prefer something, anything to nothing. Agreement, argument, anything.

She gives him no satisfaction, and he steps to her console, brings up images of the temple. Though she says nothing, she turns and stares at the images.

"We recovered Commander Scott's tricorder on which Dr. McCoy recorded numerous photos and measurements of the temple, of the anomaly. Other members of the away team have recorded and transmitted photos, video, audio, and various observations of the surrounding area. Your assignment is to study all the data that has been gathered and determine how Dr. McCoy could have gained access to the inaccessible. It is the best way to rescue Dr. McCoy, and the only way to save your people."

Surprising coming from Spock, but this is a partial lie. If McCoy is trapped in the anomaly, he will likely die of starvation by the time they are able to return; however, it is true that the imperative for her people is for the Enterprise science and engineering teams to be able to enter the anomaly and repair it.

Anon finally reacts. She lifts her chin and narrows her eyes. "Understood, sir. I shall fully apply myself to this question."

Spock is satisfied, nods. "The Enterprise will pursue the dangerous object, destroy it, and shortly return to Rrannimm to rescue Dr. McCoy. You can be sure of that." Spock finally exits.

 _Good girl._ As usual, Janay has an opinion. _I know that was hard. Do you have any ideas you want to pursue? Want to talk about it at all?_

Anon's display of confidence to Spock has disappeared. She slumps in her chair and covers her face with her hands. Andersen cannot see her, of course, but is powerfully impacted by her emotions.

 _Hey, Sister. He's hurt, not gone. You'd know if he was gone, right?_

Of course, Andersen well knows that Anon is not psychic. She has never claimed to have a good feeling about this or a bad feeling about that. Andersen's statement is intended to encourage hope, that's all. To that extent it works, and Andersen feels love from her friend pour over her. But Anon's mind is silent. Andersen tries another angle.

 _Soli. You have to figure out how to get into the temple. McCoy did it, probably by accident. You have to do it deliberately. What Is your analysis?_

Anon leaps up and starts pacing, flapping her hands, shaking her head. _I have no ideas, Janay. I have nothing. You know me. I never do! I can't … I don't…_

 _Nonsense_.

Andersen knows that with Anon, the best defense is an aggressive offense. _Soli, you have to start somewhere. Start with the images – they made them for a reason. Start with what you are, who you are. Like your music, Soli. You sang even when Keeper punished you for it. You sang on Bolarus 9 even when you didn't know why. Your people sing. The name of your planet is a song. You know this. If there is a way into the temple, it has to involve the images, and it probably requires singing. Music. Sound. Soli, yes?_

Andersen's harangue has worked, and Anon is focused. _Yes. If it is visual or mechanical, I bet they would have found it already from the video, no worries. But if it's something else ... Yah, sound is always overlooked. Janay, you're right. You must be right. It's the best place to start. Okay. I have to_ …

Anon brings up all the recordings of the temple that had been downloaded from the engineering tricorder. She plays the audio while she scrolls through the pictures. The stylized drawings, exactly the same on all four sides, grab her attention. She pounds her hands on the counter.

Andersen takes note. _Rock Head, what are you thinking?_

 _I'm thinking I have to have to have to talk to the field scientists on the Rrannimm mission. What animals are the most tied to the people, and what are their calls? When I was listening to their conversations, I learned that there are many domesticated animals._

 _If it has been activated by animal sounds for thousands of years, it would have to be common animals, valuable enough to the people to be tended, and ones whose calls are easy to imitate._

Anon returns to a photo of the pictographs. _Look at this, Janay, bird, mammal, reptile, plant. All four sides, in the exact same order. Which animals do they represent? How can we narrow it down? What are their calls? Stay with me, Block Head, I need you more than ever. Just don't start crying about it okay? I'll do the access to the temple. You work on … on … I don't know … on continence._

 _You had to bring that up, didn't you. Brat. Payback will come, you wait and see._

"Scotty, I know this is not what you had in mind, but we had to try to find Bones The delay was prolonged, so what's your revised picture?

"Cap'n, going through the MOAB at full-out impulse power, quick enough to reach a viable detonation point in time, sudden changes of course that will avoid our own impact with this mess o'space, well, we can do it, but we'll stress out the Enterprise. At top speed in this environment, it will take us a good three weeks, probably more. We need to return with lower speed, fewer changes of direction. I know it means leaving the good doctor in suspense a bit longer, probably an extra fifteen to eighteen days, but we are too much on our own here to risk damage to my pretty bird. We can nae count on rescue if she is hurt.

Kirk does the calculation aloud. "Three weeks out, five weeks back. That's a long time if Bones is in serious physical danger."

"I know, Cap'n." Scott's face is drawn tight in worry. "I've run the numbers over and over again. It's the best we can do. And at that, I can nae be sure the Enterprise has the fire power to completely destroy the offending rock. It's a monster. I would love to get a look at the technology inside that anomaly. It's been keepin' the place safe for thousands of years, and I want to get my hands on it."

Kirk smiles, hard not to when in conversation with Scott. "That's on my agenda as well, Scotty. A planet buster. Nice piece of work. Thank you, Mr. Scott."

Scott nods and departs. Kirk's smile fades, and he buries his face in his hands.

Something smells horrible. Vile. Poisonous. There is a name for it, but he can't remember.

He is wet. He is wearing … clothing that is wet. The clothing holds onto the stink of him. Something has happened. There is a name for it, but he can't remember.

He trembles. He is not afraid, nor is he angry. Yet he can't stop shaking. There is a name for that as well but he can't remember.

He himself has a name, but he can't remember.

He has a role, a job. It's an important role, but he can't remember.

Stinking like this is an affront to his role, but why he can't remember.

He removes his wet, stinking clothing – there's another name for his clothing but he can't remember.

A clunky thing slows his disrobing. He has to pull it over his head in order to remove his shirt. He stares at the clunky thing with its strap. It also has a name, but he can't remember. He drops it on the floor.

He should be clad, but not in these ruined clothes. He will find water and … soap? Yes … soap to wash his clothing. To restore his dignity, because he is … He has a name, but he can't remember.

The strange room, strange because it has no function that he can recall, is well lit. He gathers his stinking clothes and walks the perimeter of the room. No exit. There are stairs. He climbs the stairs. A door drops down to open, and he cringes in fear. He knows the door opened before and it was a terrible thing, but why he can't remember.

He stumbles up the stairs to daylight. He steps out onto a broad platform and the opening closes behind him. He still cannot stop shaking. He reaches for a wall for support; it is cool and smooth, and he leans against it. His tremors finally debilitate him so he sinks to his knees. He is not alone. He can hear the voices of many people concerned about him, talking about him, talking to him. He awaits their arrival.

His wait is brief. A man steps out of the grove of spindly trees. The trees seem wrong but he can't say why.

The stranger approaches. The stranger is probably male, as he is extremely muscular, but he is short, some twenty centimeters shorter than the man who can remember nothing. Other than his long red mane, the stranger is hairless. The stranger's clothing is simple but beautifully decorated.

The stranger looks at him closely, communicates fear, shame.

Stop it. Get out of my head. It hurts.

The stranger ignores his demand and draws closer, talks to him. In his head.

 _Get out of my head_. Still no good.

 _I saw you came from the temple. Only the gods enter the temple. You don't look like a god_.

An image of a tiny, pale, bald biped wearing diaphanous white gown fills his mind's eye. He looks down to evaluate his appearance. He is a large, dark, hairy biped wearing nothing at all but bearing clothes that were never white or diaphanous. The stranger speaks in his head again.

 _I am Shaman. I am responsible for the temple. You came from the temple. What are you?_

He searches for his responsibility, for his purpose, comes up empty. Tears stream down his cheeks. Not an answer.

 _Your eyes make so much water. What is wrong with them? You are ill_?

Finally, a question he can answer. _I am ill_.

 _I am Shaman, a healer of the people. Come with me. I will try to heal you_.

The large, dark, hairy man attempts to accompany Shaman, but loses his balance and drops the clothes clenched in his fist. Shaman reaches his arm around the man's waist; the size differential between them inhibits a better stance. On contact, the man learns of the shaman's strength and weakness, power and fear, but not why he possesses these attributes and flaws; the shaman learns the full extent of the man's illness, but not why he is present. They walk together, slowly, acquaintances who bonded on Rrannimm because that's what Rrannimmese do, to Shaman's village.

 _Janay, Janay, are you awake? Guess what, guess what?_

 _And a good morning to you as well, Rock Head. I'm feeling fine. Progress from yesterday was maintained, thank you for asking._

 _Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't ask. You can stand? First thing in the morning? That's wonderful! You must be so excited. I'm excited, too. I just forgot to ask. And … and, what else?_

 _Stayed dry overnight. Thank you for_ _not_ _asking._

 _Someone should write a hymn of praise and thanksgiving to Kegels._

 _Someone should. Maybe it will be me. So, what got you carrying on, yelling and hollering, first thing in the morning?_

 _I figured out the reptile thingy, except it was more an amphibian thingy. I had to ask Zoology to confirm, and they say probably._

 _Probably. You woke me up yelling about probably._

 _Well, yah. It was a breakthrough. The bird and mammal were so obviously domesticated, figured that out right away, that we all just figured the reptile thingy was too. Problem is, none of the pix and videos showed one. But the audios were full of a background noise, and when I thought about the listening tour I did myself, there it was but crystal clear, in the foreground. So what was it, right?_

Andersen yawns _. It was loud, that's what it was. Kind of like how you woke me up this morning, right?_

Anon ignores the ragging. _Anthropology, oh I_ _love_ _these guys, they looked at the food they were preparing and realized one of the foods was like caviar, they said. Eggs without shells? I have no idea. But people seemed to squeeze something like a salamander to get these eggs, and Zoology said some frogs, which are also amphibians …_

 _I know that, Soli._

Anon pauses. _You do? Okay. Well, anyway, some frogs make wild, crazy calls. They said, Zoology said, usually if it's seasonal it's for mating and if it's year-round it's territorial. Isn't that fascinating?_

 _Actually, ja. I never would have thought of that._ Andersen is finally fully engaged.

 _So, I listened and listened, and it seems to be constant, so it must be the third sound, and it's always the same pitches._

 _Three down, one to go. Damn I hope you're right about all this._

 _Me too._ Anon's shoulders slump and her head drops _. I have no idea about the plant, though. I'll listen some more, but plant sounds are soft and dependent on wind and rain conditions, Mitchell tells me, so I feel like there's something I'm missing. And that Botany has no clue about. Plant sounds doesn't seem to be a major category of research._

Andersen laughs. _Why am I not surprised? So back to listening and thinking and imagining._

 _Not imagining. That's your realm. Imagine Terran plant sounds, Janay. Then transfer that to Rrannimm plants. See what you come up with._

 _I'll do that during my OT today. We're working on deep breaths and loud noises via the diaphragm. The fun never stops._

 _Love you, Block Head. Got to go to lab._

 _Back at you, Rock Head. Make me some pretty pictures, okay?_

The large, dark, hairy stranger has a song, like all the people.

His song was God-Man at first, because he had come from the temple. But as the hair began to grow on his face, his song was magnified to God-Man-Beast.

When there could be no mistaking his inability to far-speak, his name was diminished to Man-Beast. Gods can far-speak, so he cannot be a god. Only beasts have hair on their bodies and faces, so he is a beast.

Man-Beast is not offended but amused, and laughs a horrible, guttural laugh. He cannot far-speak nor can he sing, yet he is a man. Shaman had buried Man-Beast's disgusting clothing, and Man-Beast dons the woven clothes of the people, altered for his size.

As Man-Beast, he accompanies Shaman among the villages for healings. Man-Beast is vibrantly interested in healing, although he knows nothing of the herbs of Rrannimm.

But when Leader's Cousin's Son's Third Wife was delivering her second child, and the bleeding started, and Shaman's herbs did not stanch the blood, Man-Beast leaned in and took hold of Leader's Cousin's Son's Third Wife's abdomen in both his hands. He squeezed her womb hard, and the bleeding ceased. Despite the pressure on her womb, she experienced not pain but relief. Shaman applied more herbs, and this time the astringent worked. Leader's Cousin's Son's Third Wife survived the birth, and Shaman began to learn a new way of healing.

The people restore Man-Beast's song to God-Man to honor his recovery of the mother's life, and he accompanies Shaman on all healings, for his knowledge is precious and life-giving, just as godlike as far-speaking. He saves three more mothers in this way, and Shaman saves another, having learned the trick of it.

Although he is ugly and unable to far-speak, when he becomes known as a healer, several women offer to become his mate. A healer has great value in a family. Yet he refuses all of them until no more make the offer. The consensus is that he must already have a mate, in that strange village in the sky that they knew until it departed, leaving God-Man behind. When they return for him, he will be reunited with his mate. This is assumed and understood and sung, and therefore must be true.

Soon, however, although his recovery from his injuries is complete, he falls ill again. This is a puzzlement; the disease is unmistakably Yellow Baby. Yet how can a grown man fall prey to Yellow Baby. By definition, it afflicts children only. The puzzlement turns to fear when he does not get better. Children always get Yellow Baby, and they always get better. God-Man just keeps getting sicker and sicker. They have no treatment; none had ever been needed in collective memory.

God-Man seems to know something of his illness, though not its song. He sings not Yellow Baby but grunts, in his horrible way, "Pare. Uh. Site," again and again. He can neither create an image nor a concept that the people can understand. Only that grunt, and alarming colors of red and gold and black.

God-Man becomes too weak to accompany Shaman for healing. He becomes too ill to eat. The people foresee his fate, and wail songs of mourning over its inevitability. The Rrannimmese way is always to keep company with those who are dying, so God-Man is never alone now. His shelter always has at least one companion within, more in the evenings when the people return to the village after their day's work. And all the people stay in his head at all times, singing, crooning, comforting. God-Man curls up on the soft, woven mat and awaits death.

As Scott had feared, the Enterprise has to make several passes at the asteroid – almost a dwarf planet – before he can be confident it has been blasted into small enough pieces not to present a danger to Rrannimm. And at that, he cannot be sure one or more pieces won't collide with some other rock and send it careening on yet another dangerous trajectory. They have been delayed even beyond his projections and so are running an additional four days behind. Scott experiences repeated waves of guilt, that if McCoy doesn't survive it will be because he, Scott, took too long to fix the problem.

Around the table they sit, Kirk, Spock, and Scott. It is time for Anon to present her results.

She brings up one of McCoy's pictures of the temple decorations. "Obviously, the first thing we need to do is check for door outlines, movable blocks, detectable openings that can't be seen on video. If we can't find an entrance easily, we should touch each of the images – Anthropology said to call them petroglyphs based on the photos but said they would have to confirm by closer examination. Andersen got all excited about it."

Anon smiles at the memory but hastily recovers her thread. "Um, touch each of the petroglyphs in sequence, because they are in the same sequence on all four sides."

She brings up a table of sequences on the console monitor. "As you can see, there are several ways of considering a sequence of these images – left to right, right to left, each bird then each mammal, etc."

Anon glances at her audience. Spock and Scott are nodding in agreement: Here we are in arithmetic. Kirk leans forward, studying the table until he is satisfied and settles back in his chair.

"If these efforts fail, Janay had another idea. When I was listening to the Rrannimmese," and she sings the name, "there was neural communication of course, but also constant singing. Janay thought that since I was always singing even as a tiny child, that the symbols on the temple might represent sounds."

Anon initiates cycling through images on the monitor of work activities of the Rrannimmese that had been captured. "I thought that was most insightful. Make the right sounds, on the right pitches, in the right sequence, and the door would open. I listened further to the audio recordings, and I talked to the scientists who had placed the recording devices and who observed the people in the brief interval that they had to work with. I am confident I can create the sounds represented by the first three symbols."

Anon breaks off to project just the image of the petroglyphs again, and proceeds to demonstrate, with squawks, bleats, and bellows in turn. Spock listens solemnly; Kirk and Scott battle to hide their amusement, but she seems not to notice either way.

"I'm sorry to have to confess I have failed to decipher the meaning of the blades of grass. It could be a wind-blown shushing, but both botanists agreed that it would change depending on the moisture content of the leaves and the power of the wind. The idea that the sounds would have to be the correct frequency just doesn't work with grasses blowing in the wind, although of course we could try anyway. I'm sorry. I'm at a loss and would appreciate a suggestion. I asked Janay, and she had no more ideas."

Scott and Spock look blankly at Anon, and at each other, but Kirk starts to chuckle, and slaps his hands on the table. "I have a very good notion of what it means, Ensign. The country boys from Georgia and Iowa have a great deal in common, and we both would have wasted time in our youth on this pursuit. You take a blade of grass, stretch it between your thumbs, and blow through it. It squeals like a son of a bitch. The thickness and length of the grass determines the sound. Used to drive my mother crazy."

Anon stares at the image and back at Kirk. "I'm confused. You seem to be saying you create a reed instrument with how? I mean with what? I mean, can you show me how you do this?"

Kirk digs up a piece of paper and tears a short, narrow strip. He holds it up. "A blade of grass."

He demonstrates the pinching of the strip between the tips and heels of his thumbs and blows on it. It hardly makes more than a pfft and a rattle, but Anon gets the gist.

"I have to try this. I'm going to the conservatory. Thanks."

She bolts from the room, then yanks herself back in. "Permission requested to …"

"Permission granted, Ensign. Dismissed."

The three officers sit in silence. Kirk finally gains the courage to say what is on all of their minds.

"This is the unlikeliest, most absurd, ridiculous notion I've ever heard."

Scott laughs loud and long. "Beg to differ with ye, Cap'n. I find a certain … elegant simplicity in it. As an engineer, this is my favorite kind of solution, don't you know."

Spock has the last word. "Lieutenant Andersen has always been noted for her creativity, Ensign Anon for her analyses. As the Earth saying goes, If I were a betting man, I wouldn't bet against them." 

Kirk is in a fine mood; the Enterprise is in orbit around Rrannimm, and McCoy's life signs have been detected. He is in the company of a native so transporting him back to the ship is out of the question at this time, but a great weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

His mood enables him to poke fun at Spock: There's only a moment before the elevator picks up Scott and then Anon, and the captain makes the most of it.

Kirk smirks, "The ensign requested that I be part of the away team even though that goes against Starfleet protocol. I'm feeling pretty good about it, especially since I know you're dead-set against it."

"Yes, Captain, I am. But I have no countervailing argument. You know how to … blow on a blade of grass to make a high-pitched sound. Ensign Anon requested that you …. do the honors, and you were, of course, more than eager to agree."

Spock cannot be riled. "Please remember that it is on general principles that ship's captain is not to be part of an away team. Exceptions can be made, and this would be considered an exception. You need not engage in banter to make your point."

"Oh, I think I do," Kirk chortles. The elevator pauses to pick up Scott, and the conversation is ended. Whatever light-hearted spirits with which Kirk was holding himself together, they vanish at once. The elevator discharges them, and they walk in silence down the corridor to Shuttle Bay.

McCoy's attending physician Rollins is already in the med shuttle. He glances at the three officers as then enter and informs them, "I've got both edible and injectable nutrition and antibiotics for every conceivable infection ready and waiting." He returns to his preparations.

The console announces, "Bridge to Captain Kirk." It's Uhura.

"Kirk here," Kirk automatically responds.

"A second native has swapped places with the first so Dr. McCoy is still not alone. Shall I notify Engineering to beam him aboard the Enterprise anyway?"

Kirk, Spock, and Scott look at each other, a great weight having lifted off their shoulders. Kirk answers the bridge. "Negative, Lieutenant Uhura. I'd prefer to wait for transport until he is alone. We are at enough risk of Prime Directive violation as it is. But thank you for updating me. For now, just continue to monitor the situation."

"Yes, Captain." Uhura closes the channel.

Anon makes her appearance, having been aboard the med shuttle since her sleep cycle ended hours ago. She has been sitting cross-legged in the seat that had been hers during the experimental protocols to measure her brain activity, and now she rotates to become visible.

Kirk blanches. He had not intended for her to know the results of searching for McCoy's life signs lest it disrupt what little equilibrium she appears to possess. Best laid plans and all that. He says merely, "The away team is complete. If you are ready Dr. Rollins, we'll be on our way."

Rollins stares at Anon; he also had no idea she was already aboard. "I'm ready, Captain."

With Spock at the helm, the second away team heads to the surface of Rrannimm.


	16. Chapter 16

**Section 4: Schicksalslied**

 **Chapter 3: How Can I Keep From Singing**

Anon exits the shuttle first without asking permission, another breach of protocol. Kirk visibly seethes; he is beginning to sympathize with Victorino. Spock merely raises an eyebrow. Ordering Rollins to wait in the shuttle until McCoy's situation changes, Kirk follows behind Anon, trailed by Spock and Scott. When they step on the planet's surface, the officers fan out, Anon having already walked away.

Spock, Scott, and Kirk meticulously examine the steps, platforms and sides of the anomaly, searching for knobs, levers, slots, anything that might allow them access. They find nothing recognizable.

The officers then work through the various combinations of touching and pressing the petroglyphs, following Anon's chart, one by one. The last video recorded of McCoy's movements showed him atop the four-stone block on one of the top platforms surrounding the bulk of the anomaly, so they concentrate their efforts there. Still, no opening reveals itself. They descend the steps to join the ensign.

Anon had spotted a clump of grasses, the same clump that had caught McCoy's attention some two months ago. She has trotted to the cluster and crouched down to examine it, learns it is a single plant. She cranes her neck; there are many of these plants at the edge of the woods – it appears to be at least as common as the animals pictured on the temple, in this area anyway.

The individual blades of grass on the plant are all of a size, both length and breadth and thickness; as her botanist friend Mitchell had theorized, a promising sign for creating a consistent pitch. She plucks four of them. She circles the anomaly once, pauses with her hands on her hips, then nods and climbs the steps to the platform with the four-block raised area, as the officers had focused upon.

Anon looks over her shoulder and gestures to Kirk. She holds out the grasses. He mounts the steps to join her and takes one blade of grass. He fits it between his thumbs, starts to blow on it, and promptly drops it, watching it fly away. He rolls his eyes. "Out of practice."

Kirk positions another blade, and blows. This time he produces a shrill sound, and he grins.

Anon takes a deep breath, and squawks, bleats, and bellows. She turns to Kirk; he drops the grass again. This time he curses, breaking what they hope is the proper tonal sequence.

Another blade of grass readied, another series of squawk, bleat, bellow, and now Kirk manages to produce the shriek immediately after.

The four blocks drop away, revealing a stone staircase. Spock and Scott bolt up to the platform taking two steps at a time; the three men look in awe at the stairs into a shadowy chamber, and Spock descends first, followed by Kirk and Scott.

As soon as Spock steps on the first tread, the darkness below is illuminated, though the light level is low. When the three officers have all descended below the level of the platform on which they had gathered, the four blocks begin to rise to close the opening. Startled, Scott immediately retreats up one step, and the blocks drop down again. "Hard to get in, easy to get out," he remarks.

They gather at the base of the stairs. "Smells like death in here," Kirk mutters.

Spock notices and retrieves McCoy's abandoned tricorder. It won't turn on, and Scott takes it for examination. "This has been fried," he announces, an inarguable diagnosis that doesn't provide a solution. Spock takes out his own tricorder, and switches it on to produce a bright light, and now they can see char marks on two of the countertops.

No, not countertops, not at all. Both Spock and Kirk slowly direct their tricorders' bright lights across the room. Everywhere are electronics, battery stacks, condensers, boosters, unfamiliar components whose functions are unknown; all are connected across the surfaces, horizontally, vertically, diagonally.

Scott takes a deep breath. "Don't touch anything, Laddies."

Scott visually inspects the massive apparatus and finds electronics, uninsulated, on all sides as well as on the surfaces, and a pair of blackened circuits. "I think this may explain why Dr. McCoy was unable to respond for a bit. More than a bit. Who would build electronics without insulation?" He shakes his head.

He pulls out his own tricorder and begins the pain-staking process of diagnostics on an unfamiliar, indeed alien, technology. Lost in his readings, his companions may as well no longer exist, except as sources of focused lighting and occasional verbal feedback.

Scott eventually looks up in satisfaction. "I do believe I can mend this wee creature. Let me figure out a work-around. We're going to need materials from the Enterprise. I could also do with better lighting – not that I'm complaining. Your poor shoulders must be achin' from holding up the lights for so long, and I do indeed appreciate it, Laddies."

"Mr. Scott, I am quite happy to assist," offers Spock.

"Thank ye, Mr. Spock. Any possibility of additional personnel? Even one more engineer would be valuable."

Kirk hesitates. "Not now, Scotty. If repairing the device is untenable without more help, then so it goes. But for now, I want to keep the away team to just you and Spock."

"Aye, Captain." Scott enters his requirements into his tricorder, then uploads the list into his companions' communicators and returns to taking readings.

Kirk flips open his communicator. "Kirk to Enterprise." No response. "Damn it, I forgot." He looks closer at his surroundings and sees that every surface is covered with the black mineral he has come to despise. "I'll transmit your acquisitions list and check on McCoy's status, see whether he can be beamed aboard yet."

Spock nods. "I will continue to assist Commander Scott in his endeavors."

Kirk mounts the staircase; the entranceway opens as soon as his head is within centimeters of the ceiling. He reaches the top step and stops mid-stride.

"Goddammit. Where is she!" Anon is nowhere to be seen. He flips open his communicator. "Kirk to Enterprise," he snarls. "Location of Ensign Anon."

A brief pause, then Uhura's reply. "The ensign is ten meters from McCoy's coordinates and approaching. She is in the company of a native. McCoy's companion is still with him. Captain, I'm seeing two other natives in the vicinity, moving in the same direction, possibly joining them. Orders?"

Kirk swears under his breath. "Monitor the situation; keep me informed of significant changes. Please connect me to Engineering, Lieutenant."

"Yes, Captain."

The entrance to the device chamber had not finished closing in the Enterprise's officers before Anon was descending to the ground and seeking contact neurally. She locates McCoy almost immediately but discerns he is in great distress. She decides against far speaking directly with him and instead reaches out to another whose song she recognizes. _Shaman, go to the temple. Strangers from the village in the sky are here to help. I am of the people and also of the strangers. We need your wisdom._

 _Soli, what the hell are you doing?_ Janay is in hysterics. _You're violating the Prime Directive. You're going to be court martialed! Stop before it's too late! Please_.

 _Janay, I don't care. I am one of the people of Rrannimm. You know it. I know it. Every bit of video recorded by the Enterprise confirms it. If it violates the Prime Directive to meet my own people then the Prime Directive is a ass, a idiot._

 _Don't you be quoting 'Oliver' to me, dammit. Use your head! Not your thick Rock Head, your clear head. Your well-trained, finely attuned Starfleet Head. I'm begging you, Soli._

 _I am doing the right thing. If you use your heart and not your head you know that's true. I can't care about Starfleet, Janay. Shh, just listen now. I hear Shaman. I have to meet him and that takes concentration. I don't know the rules here. Those are the only rules I care about right now._

Back on Earth, Janay has stopped eating her lunch and is crying hopelessly, baffling her home health aide. On Rrannimm, Anon has spied Shaman and begins to shape her destiny by her own judgment and actions.

 _I am Shaman. What has happened? Strangers in the temple? Only a shaman or an apprentice may enter the temple. I am unworthy of the veneration of my position, of all the shamans through time. I am the Shaman Who Failed._ His song is melancholy, tragic.

 _I am one of those strangers at the temple but I am also one of the people. Yet I am Solitary, Alone. I have many unanswered questions as well. Perhaps union will enlighten us._

Even as she communicates these thoughts, Anon is pulling off her gloves. Shaman reaches for her, and they grip each other's forearms, entering the mode of I-am-you-you-are-me-we-are-each-other. Union.

Shaman shares the whole of his life. Anon becomes what he is and experiences what he knows and has known. He lives the reason the abduction of a three-year-old was a catastrophe for Rrannimm.

All of Rrannimm knew the god – Keeper, whose complete and disturbing song Shaman finally hears from Anon – had been listening and watching for many months. No one knew why. Since the gods gave the temple to Rramminn and the death from the sky ceased, no god had returned, but they were remembered and celebrated for their great gift. Shamans through the generations tended the temple and trained their replacements.

When old Shaman chose the young boy as Apprentice, excitement grew that perhaps this was what the god, whom Shaman now knows as Keeper, was waiting for. Shamans serve for centuries; Apprentices learn for decades. Perhaps God Keeper would bestow a particular blessing on Shaman and the newly-chosen Apprentice.

Leader had been selected years earlier; Leader's Daughter was healthy and a toddler. Finally Shaman had chosen his apprentice. The celebration of Leader's daughter future mating to the new Apprentice to would be a fit spectacle for the god Keeper to witness. Surely this was why the god had visited, to observe, to approve, and to anticipate with the Rrannimmese the match of Shaman's Apprentice with Leader's Daughter.

Apprentice stood on the broad upper platform of the temple; Weaver Leader Wife, brought Leader Weaver Daughter up and deposited her next to Apprentice – oh, how the Rrannimmese laughed at Daughter's battle not to be put down by Weaver Leader Wife, her mother. She could only be mollified by her mother's reassurances that the separation would be brief.

The ceremony was always brief when a young child was a participant. The ritual song, with verses truncated, the Apprentice taking his future mate's forearms for their first Union, then the girl returned to her mother's grasp.

But there could no ceremony. As soon as her mother stepped away, Leader Weaver Daughter disappeared. Moments later, so did the god Keeper.

That was all the Rrannimmese knew for certain, but their worry and speculation began immediately. Why did the god prevent the celebration of the choosing of the Apprentice, the future Shaman, the role created and blessed by the gods so many generations ago? Why at the moment of union with his future mate was he left alone on the temple?

Shaman has never forgotten the plunge from exhilaration to humiliation. From the first Apprentice witnessed by the gods, to the only Apprentice rejected by the gods.

The old Shaman also experienced shame and doubt. Apprentice was, after all, his selection. He must have chosen wrong. He doubted himself; worse, he doubted his chosen apprentice, and he kept from Apprentice the key to accessing the temple. Oh, he taught Apprentice all the healing methods, taught him what to do within the temple for its maintenance, but never trusted him to enter on his own, as old Shaman had from his first days as an apprentice himself a century earlier.

Leader's second daughter was born two years later, and the Rrannimmese celebrated the future of Apprentice and Second Daughter as future mates, but the song of joy was muted by fear and dread. The rituals were completed without disruption, but still, old Shaman carried distrust within him of his choice of apprentice.

When old Shaman died in an accident, only ten years later, Apprentice became the new Shaman without the requisite knowledge to enter the temple. His humiliation was multiplied. He blocked these facts from his people, even from Wife when they were mated ten years after that. He kept them from Wife during every union, forming a barrier between them that should never exist between mates.

Although Shaman went to the temple every day, apparently devoted beyond any previous shaman, he was nevertheless unable to support the many needs of the temple. The death from the sky had returned, first occasionally, then regularly. The people lost confidence in Shaman; now they know why the god had shamed him.

All this poured out of Shaman into Anon, as she united with him. His disgrace melted away when he learned the truth of that day over thirty years ago. He learned the god Keeper wanted a Rrannimmese child, any child, and was indifferent to the consequences on Rrannimm. That, Shaman learns, is the hallmark of the gods: cruelty and indifference.

Shaman learns that it was not his fault. It was never his fault.

Anon holds back everything about her Starfleet life but allows Shaman to become certain pieces of herself. Shaman experiences her separation from her family by Keeper; her life on Keeper's ship and on Ktak: her subsequent separation from Keeper by death; her solitude until the coming of Janay who is somehow here with us but so far away; her courtship and mating with the God-Man Healer McCoy; her rejoining the people this day.

Most powerful of all his new wisdom and experience, Shaman now knows Anon as the source of the Scream, which has haunted all Rrannimm and has still not been integrated. That one of their own should be so alone and without comfort was inconceivable; that they did not know her voice and could not help her was unprecedented. Truly she is solitary, in a village where even her mate cannot far speak.

Union has exposed all that it can. Shaman and Alone slide their hands up each other's arms until they are embracing, forehead touching forehead, feeling damp skin on damp skin, inhaling hot perspiration, hearing pounding hearts, seeing blurred facial features through their nictitating membranes, tasting the sweat as they lick each other dry. If they were human they would be making love, but they are Rrannimmese and mated to others. Union leads to knowledge, understanding, clarity; it is not foreplay.

Shaman strokes and examines Anon's left arm. _You are broken_.

She holds up her arm; the scars from that awful accident that took Janay from her have been treated and are no longer visible, and the arm functions physically, but the neural communication connections have not returned. _Yes. I am broken. Union was unbalanced_. _So it is_.

 _It is so_.

Anon lifts her head, eyes wide; Shaman feels her pulling away neurally. _Janay, what's wrong? Where are you?_

Shaman releases Anon so they are no longer in physical contact, but he listens to her frantic attempts to renew communication with Janay the Sister by Choice, the Beloved Friend, and a host of songs he has never heard before. Although her presence was welcome, Janay did not speak during Union; she must be one of the strangers who cannot far speak.

 _Soli, I'm okay, now_.Shaman hears Janay's voice at last through she who calls herself Alone – Soli also means Alone? – but he doesn't understand her meaning. _Don't ever do that to me again, Soli. Whatever it was. Nurse said I had a seizure, thrashing all over the place, and I don't doubt it. Goddammit, you have made one bad decision after another._

 _Janay, my sister, my beloved friend, I am so sorry. I didn't realize. Leonard had a bad reaction when I did it with him but not as bad as yours. I'll get out of your head next time. Please forgive me._

 _Of course, I forgive you. I always do. I always will. But who's this guy with you and what did you do? And don't demonstrate, for God's sake, just tell me._

Shaman and Anon walk together towards the village, Anon waxing eloquent to Andersen about Union, Shaman listening to and marveling at the conversation with Janay who is so far away, not even in the sky village. Alone Soli shares the far speaking with him, but otherwise he cannot hear her.

Janay ultimately dismisses both Anon's explanation and her rapture with a mental shrug. _If you say so. But still, never do it again with me dragged along, got it?_

Shaman is still full of questions. _The God-Man is your mate Have you any daughters?_

 _No._

 _I grieve for you. God-Man McCoy has Yellow Baby. He will not live to make babies._

 _Yellow Baby – what does that mean?_

 _You must know. Everyone gets Yellow Baby. When we are weaned. We always get sick. We always get better. But God-Man McCoy is dying from it. I have tried but I cannot heal him. I am sorry. My wife will die in childbirth, if not next time, then the time after that. So it is. We both will lose our mates, soon. Perhaps you should be my second wife, since you were meant to be my first and have now returned?_

Anon looks cross-eyed at Shaman, but he is serious. She pokes him in the arm with her forefinger. " _We shall prick that annual blister. Marriage with deceased wife's sister." No, Shaman, it may not be. Never._

 _Ah. Though you are of the people, you belong with the strangers. In their village in the sky._

 _Yes. I must return to them._

 _So it is._

 _It is so. And/but Shaman, we will not let our mates die. Not now._

Their conversation ceases; Shaman calls for Wife, sister to Alone Soli, and Leader, father to both his wife and Alone Soli, to meet them at the God-Man McCoy's dwelling.

Anon neurally informs Spock that McCoy will shortly be brought to the temple. Spock attempts to reply but does not succeed and realizes Anon is not listening to him. Shaman and Anon arrive at the dwelling, and Shaman holds back the tent flap for Anon to enter.

Anon sees McCoy curled up on the mat, his Rrannimmese healer nearby. He lifts himself slightly upon seeing her but falls hard back on the mat. She kneels next to him, listens, and orders the people. _Get out of God-Man's head. We are grateful that you wish to help but It hurts him_.

Anon turns to McCoy's companion. _Thank you for staying with him. He is my mate; I will care for him._

Shaman had continued to hold the flap open; the healer exits, and Shaman lets the flap close. Anon can hear singing outside the tent; her father and sister have arrived.

Anon's gloves are somewhere in the woods where she did Union with Shaman, so she is cautious in touching McCoy, lest she automatically connect to him. She pulls McCoy's head into her lap and sways forward and back, crooning, murmuring. Shaman, Sister, and Father, waiting outside the dwelling, join Anon neurally and sing songs of joy at her recovery of her mate. They stay out of McCoy's head, as she had requested, but listen closely.

"I know you." McCoy's voice is almost inaudible.

"Yes, of course you do. I'm Soli."

"Soli. yes. They call me God-Man, but that's not right."

"God-Man is your song. But your name is Leonard."

"My name is Leonard." Tears fall from his eyes. "You're speaking words. I can understand. No one else has spoken words to me. Noise in my head. Voices in my head. So much noise. I'm scared, Soli. I don't want to die."

"Leonard, you're okay, now. I'm here. We're together. I won't leave you." Anon pulls him closer. He's thin, ribs poking through his dehydrated skin. And yellow. Skin and sclera. Yellow Baby? She strokes his matted hair, kisses his grimy forehead. He paws at her, in a feeble attempt to clasp her hands. She takes his hands in one of her own, holds them to her chest.

"I know you don't like the voices in your head, Leonard, but if you let me in, I can fix you. So you know who you are. Just me, Leonard. Once you fixed me. Let me fix you."

"Only you. Soli, I don't know anything. I'm lost. Fix me. Please."

 _Janay, bye for now. Union again._

Anon twists herself to lower his head to the mat; she straddles him. She takes his forearms in her hands; he lays his fingers on her forearms and closes his eyes. Their second Union is radically different from their first, when Anon had been him and McCoy her.

This time she propels all that she knows of him, sends the McCoy she knows coursing through his neural system. Weak though he is, he becomes rigid and his hands find the strength to grip her forearms. He begins to integrate the experiences of his frightening, strange, and lonely months with the man she reveals him to have been.

Through union, Anon remembers whistling the blade of grass and the fall into the temple; she pulled herself to a stand and awakened much later to filth and emptiness and terror and not knowing.

He remembers what it is to be Leonard McCoy, what it is to be Doctor McCoy. He remembers what it is to be Soli Anon's lover.

Union ceases when Anon releases his arms and slips her hands under him, McCoy clutches her body, and they kiss and inhale and taste each other.

"Soli. I'm so sick. Let me love you now. If it's the last thing I do, I have to..."

"Shh. Yes. Now. But it's the start of the rest of our lives, not the end. I'll help you …"

The sex itself is brief, McCoy unable to last long enough to bring Anon to orgasm. But sharing his climax is so sweet for them, so they don't mind missing hers.

Sharing the love-making through connection with Anon's family enriches the brief intercourse for all but McCoy who is protected from the intrusion. Father/Sister/Shaman learn that God-Man McCoy is not ugly as they had thought but has great attraction. The soft fur under her fingertips thrill them; his eyes are dark as the night sky – they could spend a lifetime searching within them for the stars; his outsized body envelops them in heat and desire. Sister and Shaman press together; Father longs for Wife and Second Wife and Third Wife and Fourth Wife. He has had too much suffering and too many losses.

 _I was so afraid, Leonard. I thought I'd lost you. And here you are with me. Inside me. Together_.

They lie in warmth and stillness while McCoy regains his breath. Then, "Parasite," he whispers.

"What? No, you're not a parasite. You are a great healer. You are beloved! You …"

McCoy's single harsh eruption of laughter interrupts Anon's assurances. "No. Didn't mean. I'm a parasite. Have a parasite. My liver. Classic. A few weeks … local food and water. Sick. Must be. A parasite."

Anon wriggles free and pulls her trousers on, then rewraps McCoy's loincloth in a reasonable facsimile of how it had looked prior to sex.

"I told Spock we would bring you to the temple. Shaman, Father, Sister, and I. We have to get started." She dives into Andersen's head again, singing and rejoicing.

"You are a piece of work, Soli Andersen, you know that?" McCoy whispers, lies quietly, waiting.

 _You got that right, Doctor. Hang in there_. Andersen doesn't know whether McCoy can hear her, but she knows Anon can, and that's what she wants.

Anon's meeting with her sister and father and niece is easily as emotional as her reunion with McCoy, though urgent and hurried. Parsecs away, Andersen tears up, watching and listening.

Anon looks exactly like her sister; her father is an older version of Shaman. Though the men are brawny, they are almost the same height as the women. Something about all that bothers Andersen, but she keeps it to herself for now, wanting just to observe.

 _God-Man drank of your water and then became sick with Yellow Baby. The healer from my sky village will want to see this water. He will look at it very closely to discover how to heal the God-Man. Can we bring a bowl of drinnking water to our healer to show him? The sky village healer is near the temple now_.

Shaman and Father place God-Man on a litter during Alone's explanation and request for a water sample. Although her daughter rides on her back, Sister readily agrees to bring water, singing, and runs off to do so, Daughter clinging tightly.

 _Soli, that was you, always having to be carried, remember? You weren't a brat – It was normal for your species._

 _I prefer to think I was a brat who always demanded and always got her own way._

Once settled on the litter, McCoy snatches Anon's hand and, awkward though it is, refuses to let go. As they walk, Father pours out his life and the life of Anon's mother in song; he answers the questions she has held in abeyance as long as she can remember; he passes on her people's story since they first were able to far speak.

Thus, they make their way to the temple for their first encounter with the Away Team, in complete, total, and utter violation of the Prime Directive. Andersen's distress notwithstanding, Anon cares not a whit.

Arriving at the temple, the Rrannimmese party spot the Away Team, Scott standing on the second step down to the chamber to keep the doorway open, Kirk, Spock, and Rollins on the platform waiting.

As one, Shaman and Father halt and sing to each other, then far speak. _The people of the sky village are so unalike! Tall and short, dark and pale, eyes of different shades, ears rounded or pointed! How very interesting!_

After exchanging looks with Rollins, Spock, and Scott, Kirk steps forward as leader and descends to the ground. Without further delay the Rrannimmese drag the litter towards him, just as Sister trots up, with the water in a large, hollowed-out nut.,

Anon takes the nut and takes charge. Andersen marvels at the stilted language – another question for Anon for later, and maybe also for Uhura: why do the words come out so strangely? Even spoken words sound like song lyrics.

Anon says, _I am sorry, my beloved family, that it is the way of the sky village to stay apart from the people. They must always remain strangers. And yet, Shaman, you must enter the temple with them. Talk to Great Learner and Teacher_ – she points to Spock – _and watch and show Maker of All Things_ – she points to Scott – _how to care for the temple. Sky Village Leader must join you. It is our way._

 _Father and Sister – and Niece! – I will help Healer – she points to Rollins – to bring God-Man McCoy back to the Sky Village. I beg you to wait here until I return. I cannot depart having had so little time with you. I feel I would die._

Anon speaks aloud to McCoy, in the grunting sounds that so repel the Rrannimmese. "My love, let me go. We have to get you to Sickbay."

McCoy releases Anon's hand, and Rollins reacts as if suddenly unfrozen. He reaches to seize one end of the litter but pauses to listen closely as Anon rapidly brings him up to speed. "Dr. McCoy thinks he has a parasite. Probably water-borne. Affects the liver. My sister got a water sample for you. Do you have a vial or a jar or something? I don't want to spill it."

Rollins freezes again, eyes on the attending Rrannimmese at the edge of the grove. The Prime Directive has already been broken, so what now? It takes an instant for him to come to the only logical conclusion: screw the Prime Directive.

He opens his med pack, extracts a vial, and Anon pours the water from the nut into the vial. Much of it slops over the edge, but eventually the vial is full, and he caps it. He slips the vial back into the pack and finally lifts his end of the litter. Anon picks up the other end, and they carry McCoy behind the temple, through the spindly trees, into the shuttle.

Rollins single-handedly lifts McCoy onto the examining table, relieved finally to be free to use his tricorder to scan his patient. McCoy, disoriented, flails his arms and cries out; Anon moves next to him and takes his hands. Rollins fights the nausea and pain that McCoy transmits via direct contact with Anon, without her gloves to shield him. Anon reaches for a sheet to wrap around her hands, blocking the connection and shielding Rollins from McCoy's symptoms.

Rollins opens a channel to the Enterprise. "Rollins to Sickbay."

"Chapel here."

"I've got Dr. McCoy. Liver failure. I'm setting up artificial filtering here, but please tell Dr. Chenoweth he needs a complete new liver as fast as we can grow one. Even the partial we have in storage for now."

"Yes, Doctor."

Rollins closes that channel and opens another. "Rollins to Enterprise. Prepare to beam two from the med shuttle directly to Sickbay."

Without waiting for a response, Rollins snaps off the console absently and turns to Anon.

"Can you get rid of your friends? Or whoever? The Prime Directive hasn't just been broken, it's shattered. You are in so much trouble, Ensign. Do you have something in mind?"

Andersen's voice chimes in. _Told you so. And that's a good question. What do you have in mind?_

Rollins continues, "Otherwise, the sooner I get him to Sickbay, Ensign …"

Anon squeezes McCoy's hand and strokes his bearded cheek, but otherwise betrays no emotion.

"All that matters is Leonard," she says. "He has to get well. Dr. Rollins, one more thing. Listen. My people all get this parasite when we are weaned, but we all get over it, evolved to live with it, I guess. I must have had it, too. Use my blood samples, my stored liver cells."

Anon raises her arms in supplication. "Cut fresh chunks out of me right now, anything to find whatever wrestles the damn thing into submission."

Rollins is startled by her diagnosis and passion, but quickly nods, burying his head in the instruments again.

"Make him well, Dr. Rollins. I'll go get rid of my friends, as you put it. Leonard, do you want me in your head?"

McCoy has lost consciousness and is unresponsive, and Anon's veneer of composure collapses. She runs out of the shuttle, not waiting for the glow of the transporter, half-blinded by her third eyelids.

Anon races away from the shuttle, past the temple, attempts to dodge an obstacle, but the obstacle grabs her by the arm. Her father. She rips away and careens into another obstacle. Her sister. Anon gives up running and commences sobbing, holding her face in her hands while her sister holds her.

Sister and Father begin singing, in harmony, a song of celebration of God-Man McCoy's life, of gratitude for the mothers he saved, of sorrow for his painful illness, of hope for his recovery and restoration as Alone Soli's mate.

The song is beautifully structured, obviously a familiar composition to the Rrannimmese in its rhythm, melody, and harmonies, but with the lyrics spontaneously composed, the verses alternating between Sister and Father. The harmonies are hummed, and by the middle of the first verse little Daughter/Niece joins them.

Anon stops sobbing, listening to the music flowing over and through her, understanding almost none of the words in her ears but enmeshed with the entirety of the song in her head. Andersen, caught up in the emotion and the music, at first just listens, then finds herself moaning and humming, adding a supporting rhythm, once again alarming her health aide.

For once, Anon doesn't sing; her nictitating membranes gradually pull back, and she sways, nods her head. It's an anthem, a hymn, the most precious gift the Rrannimmese people can offer to God-Man McCoy.

 _Soli, can you remember this song, exactly as it is_? Andersen asks when the music stops.

 _Of course, Janay, I'll never forget._

 _This is the next Sing-and-Sculpt, for whenever my hands are strong enough, which can't be too soon._

Anon smiles, barely, for love of her sister. She includes her Rrannimmese family in the connection with Andersen, then the smile abandons her face. _I was too slow to bring him to Dr. Rollins. I didn't believe he was that sick. I wanted him to myself, to make love to him. It's my fault he died._

 _Soli, my sweet sister, what in the world are you talking about? If you didn't ignore the Prime Directive, he'd still be in that tent, lying on his mat on the ground, in pain, wasting away. I mean, I don't know what's going to happen, but I don't believe he died. If only because Haitch wouldn't allow it. I'm sure he'll be fine. Doctor Rollins will heal him._

Her family starts singing again, a song that even Daughter/Niece knows, and together they sing the lyrics, which loosely translated mean "Everything's going to be all right," like a thousand songs of hope and optimism sung across the galaxy.

 _I love your family, Rock Head. Do you think they would adopt me?_

Anon bursts out laughing. Andersen can buoy her no matter the circumstances. The little family group bids farewell and pulls back into the grove but doesn't go any farther. In fact, they call for reinforcements. They aren't ready to leave their long-lost Daughter Sister Aunt Sister-in-law Alone Soli. She makes her way towards the temple to await orders.

Anon pauses at the base of the temple. The entrance is closed, and she is incompetent to make a blade of grass whistle. She checks the shuttle. McCoy and Rollins are gone; The away team is not there either. She returns to the temple, climbs to the platform with the four-block doorway, and sits down to wait. Andersen fills in the silence.

 _Everything's going to be fine, honey. Dr. Rollins is all over The Boyfriend's issues and will cure him by morning, and Mr. Spock is all over the away team because logically you did the right things at the right times regardless of rules, and Commander Scott is all over fixing the temple so your people will be safe, and Captain Kirk … damn, he's probably all over something but I don't want to think about what. Anyway, everything's going to be fine._

 _I'm sure you're right._

 _Of course, I'm right. I'm always right. Have you tried to contact The Boyfriend?_

 _Yes._

 _And …_

 _Nothing. Nothing._

 _I'm sorry to hear that. But I still believe he's going to be okay. He is not dead. He's in surgery or something, that's all. You saved him, Prime Directive be damned. You both will be just fine._

Anon waits in silence.

The four blocks that make up the entrance to the temple chamber drop down. Anon jumps to her feet and stands at attention. Spock pokes his head through the opening and sees her. "Please join the rest of the away team, Ensign Anon." She scurries across the platform and stumbles down the stairs.

The chamber still stinks of McCoy's vomit and shit. Anon, despite the foulness, inhales deeply.

Scott and Shaman are gesturing, pointing, Scott speaking and Shaman singing. Kirk stands aside, intently focused on their interaction but his eyes are question marks and he does not participate.

Spock leads Anon to the hub of the activity and interrupts. "Shaman, Commander Scott, please speak through Ensign Anon. The Enterprise cannot leave until we are confident the, er, temple will function as intended to protect Rrannimm. I need confirmation that my understanding of the Shaman's duties and expectations are correct."

Dialog and negotiations are painstaking. The first, and, as it turns out, the most important piece of information is that the temple never defends against spaceships. The gods announced that feature from the start. Upon learning this, Kirk climbs the steps to get above the impervious mineral and orders the Enterprise to change its orbit to stay synchronous with the temple.

While waiting for the new orbit, Anon and Kirk teach Shaman the sound key to open the temple chamber. When he succeeds –whistling the grass is new to him, and doing so consistently is tricky, but he masters it quickly – his joy is transmitted in such a powerful wave that Wife runs out of the glade to join him. She stops and retreats when she sees Kirk, but her face and that of Daughter sparkle with reflected happiness.

Anon requests and gets another Engineer to be beamed to the shuttle for easier communications with the Enterprise and transport of materials, which makes Scott's repair job straightforward. Anon learns and relays to Scott that Shaman's job primarily consists of cleaning and other maintenance of the electronics, as well as running diagnostics of its functions. He doesn't know, no Shaman has ever known, the meaning of the diagnostics' revelations; if they aren't what they know is defined as perfect, he presses a series of keys, and the system, the temple, fixes itself.

Scott speculates that there is a relationship of the Rrannimm planetary system to the nebula that could not be entirely predicted when the anomaly, the temple, was constructed, and periodic realignments are necessary. The diagnostics the shamans were expected to carry out enabled those corrections to take place, and the series of keys to fix the temple undoubtedly reboot the system.

It's a good piece of speculation. The Ktak were good but, unlike the residents of the Continuum, neither omnipotent nor able to jump through time to confirm their assumptions. And, truth be told, they didn't care quite enough about the Rrannimmese to return periodically to monitor their situation.

Still, if Keeper hadn't abducted Anon, leading to Apprentice to be distrusted by Shaman who chose him, leading to Shaman's refusal to teach Apprentice what he needed to know to enter the temple, leading to a lack of maintenance when the older shaman died in an accident and the apprentice-turned-Shaman had responsibilities he could not fulfill, the temple might have continued to operate successfully as it had for tens of thousands of years previously. But, again, the Ktak were not prescient, and ultimately, they simply didn't care.

The Enterprise transmits to the shuttle the coordinates of the next most likely dangerous object; which actually is one of the larger pieces the Enterprise broke off during its rescue mission. Scott jumps back halfway across the chamber when the protection system comes alive, but he is satisfied that the system is working as designed when the Enterprise reports the complete disintegration of the object in question.

The Rrannimmese have a different take on the matter. When the villagers return from their daily tasks this evening, the ritual Song of Sustenance will have a new verse, reporting on the major discoveries and disruptions that took place: the return and imminent departure of First Daughter Lost to the Gods; the departure and death of God-Man; the years-long secret trials of Shaman that have been resolved by the arrival of First Daughter Lost to the Gods and the Strangers of the Sky Village.

The news is so complicated but also so vital to the lives of the Rrannimmese that perhaps the reports of babies born, eggs found, fruit gathered, vegetables pulled, wool sheared, cloth woven, grains milled, goats milked – perhaps all this other vital news must wait until the shocking news revolving around First Daughter and Shaman and the temple have been shared and integrated during the sleeping periods.

 _We have returned, First Daughter, with gifts for you and God-Man McCoy. We would have you dress like your family, if you wish, though you live in the Sky Village where the clothing is strange. Leader's Cousin's Wife Weaver offers it to you. Daughter Niece offers her cup to remind you of your quest to heal God-Man McCoy. Second Daughter Sister offers you her comb for your very interesting hair. Leader Father offers his sandals for when God-Man McCoy recovers and his feet are tender_.

Anon stares at Shaman after this message; he beams back at her.

 _Sister of my Wife, If your travels are too distant for far-speaking, we wish you to remember your family who loves you_.

 _My travels will never be too distant to remember you, my beloved family. I thank you for your generosity, and on behalf of God-Man McCoy I thank you as well_. But I cannot …

Anon stops transmitting and clears her throat. "Excuse me, Mr. Spock, Captain Kirk, Commander Scott – the Rrannimmese who are my family have gifts for me and Dr. McCoy. I …" She looks at Shaman uncertainly but plunges on. "I'm thinking that all the gifts will have traces of DNA on them of those who made or used them, and so I think I should accept. I know for sure that Dr. McCoy and Dr. Rollins would very much like to have more physiological information to expand on what they know about my species."

She looks again at Shaman, who appears baffled by the meaningless words in his head and distressed by the unmusical grunts she has uttered to speak with the Strangers. Then he shrugs, so much like Anon. _So it is_. She grins at him and also shrugs. _It is so_.

Andersen complains cheerfully: _Looks like I have another new turn of phrase to get used to from you_.

 _What's that_?

 _No more shrugging and saying "it's okay." Now it's going to be all "so it is'es" and "it is so's" but still the patented Anon shrug. Am I right_?

 _So it is. And it's not patented_.

During this interchange the officers have been conferring. Their expressions mirror Shaman's and Anon's. So it is. Her commanding officer gives the okay. "We concur that DNA samples from other Rrannimmese would be of value. We will leave the anomaly, er, the temple and go to … our sky village; you may meet your compatriots and receive the gifts they offer. Be sure to send them on their way before you join us in the … village."

"Understood, Mr. Spock."

The party leaves the temple, and the officers peel off towards the shuttle, while Shaman and Anon meet more of her relatives just at the edge of the glade. There is another family group, and they sing their songs: Leader's Second Wife's Niece Weaver, well advanced in pregnancy, and her mate, Egg Gatherer Cousin to Elder Shaman, holding his own First Daughter by the hand. Anon's grandfather and great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather.

They and Anon embrace, and Weaver presents the customary Rrannimmese clothing, as much a uniform as Starfleet's, uniquely decorated. Father bows, touching foreheads with Anon, and hands her the sandals for God-Man McCoy; Daughter Niece, clinging to her mother's neck, leans over to offer her little nut cup, well-loved and very well-chewed, and Sister catches Anon's hair in the comb, twisting it into the same style as her own. Anon has pulled the elastic from her hair and gathers her sister's locks into a loose ponytail; she sends an image of her lost gloves to Shaman; she gifts them to him to use as he pleases.

 _Damn, Soli, I'm crying here. You're coming across to me as calm. Are you really? You're probably never going to see them again. How's your third eyelid situation_?

 _I'm good, Block Head. I've got neural communication. I'll see them and they'll see me until we're sick of each other. And no more Prime Directive lectures from you, okay? I'll be careful what they see_.

As she promised, Anon waits until her family, including Shaman, have entered the grove and gone from sight, then she walks to the shuttle and up the ramp. As soon as she boards, the ramp retracts, and the doors whoosh shut. No one is at the ready to pilot the little ship back to the Enterprise. On the contrary, they are arrayed in front of her, including the engineer who had been assisting Scott.

 _Crap. Here is where the rubber meets the road, whatever that means_.

 _Not now, Janay, no jokes. I think I'm being arrested_.

Anon places the gifts on the closest counter and turns to face the music, one idiom she does comprehend. She stands at attention. Spock steps forward. "Ensign Solitaire Anon, I regret to inform you that I am placing you under arrest for violation of the Prime Directive, insubordination, and dereliction of duty. When we arrive on the Enterprise, you will be placed in the brig until your court martial."

On Earth, Andersen's aide comes running at the sound of her screams and wails.

Back on the Enterprise, the shuttle enters the bay and lands in its berth. Its doors open, and Victorino, Chief of Security, is waiting, phaser drawn. A yellow shirt grabs Anon's upper arm and directs her slow walk to the brig.


	17. Chapter 17

**Section 4: Schicksalslied**

 **Chapter 4: I Will Wait**

Chenoweth turns off the tricorder but cannot turn off her revulsion at examining one of her patients, in the brig, on the wrong side of a force field. Granted, the force field has been off for the duration of the exam, but one yellow shirt has her hand on the switch, ready to turn it back on, and the other stands between Chenoweth and Anon, off to the side, yes, but only just enough to permit tricorder readings.

Chenoweth feels the stiffness in her hunched-up shoulders; she lowers them for a relaxed appearance only with the greatest effort. "Okay, Ensign. I've recorded your brig intake readings." She has scarcely uttered the words when the force field is reactivated. Anon turns her back, trudges to her berth, and sits.

The guards shift in unison to escort the doctor from the brig, but Chenoweth shakes her head and steps closer to the cell. Her patient has been mute, and tricorder readings, however valuable for bodily health, don't reveal state of mind. Damned if she is going to be rushed away without an interview.

"Ensign, you are allowed to contact me should you need any medical care. Of any kind. Security will report your eating and exercise patterns to me. But how are your spirits? This must have to been a terrible shock."

Anon shrugs and shakes her head but maintains her silence. Meanwhile, Andersen is pleading with her. _Soli, ask her how McCoy is. She'll know. Just ask, dammit_.

Chenoweth repeats, "Ensign, how are you doing? Do you need someone to talk to?" She's not leaving without a response, and Anon looks at her in belated recognition of the fact.

"It's not a shock. I violated the Prime Directive. I was arrested. It would be a shock if I hadn't been." Anon falls into silence once more, no longer making eye contact, her gaze instead darting erratically around her cell. Andersen hasn't let up. _Stop ignoring me, Rock Head. I know you can hear me. Talk to her She wants to help. Let her help_.

Chenoweth steps towards the cell. One of the yellow shirts grabs her arm but she shakes him off. He starts to reach for her again but is paralyzed by the glare she shoots him.

She turns back to the cell. "Ensign Anon, I'm charged with your welfare, regardless of your legal status." Anon pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around her shins. "And, Soli, I care about you. I'll call a counselor if you need one. You're allowed some visitors, of course, and I'm sure your bandmates will want to see you."

Andersen presses again. _See? She's on your side. She knows all about you, and she knows about The Boyfriend. Ask her how he's doing! I know he's okay! She'll make you feel better. Don't be so stubborn_!

Anon throws out her arms, thrusts her feet to the floor, and paces around and around her cell, animated but emotionally wrapped in a black curtain. "Yah. They will. I know that. And I'm not alone, you know. Janay is with me. She told me not to violate the … she begged me. And of course she was right. It was for nothing." Her voice rises and breaks with emotion. "I couldn't even save him. I should at least have saved him."

Chenoweth reaches her hand toward Anon and sets off the force field, yanks her stinging fingers back. "What do you mean? Ensign, you did save Dr. McCoy. He's a very sick puppy, yes, but Dr. Rollins has pulled him back from the edge. If he had had to wait any longer …" Chenoweth stops. "You did save him. I should have told you immediately. I'm so sorry. You didn't know. I didn't realize …"

Anon has stopped pacing and stares bug-eyed. "He was with me, and then he was gone. I thought he died. Dr. Chenoweth, I still can't find him." Her gaze is briefly unfocused. "Yes, yes, you're always right." She engages again with her doctor. "Janay didn't believe he died. I thought …" She folds into a cross-legged position on the floor and bows her head.

Chenoweth waits and watches. Minutes pass. Anon lifts her head, eyes still troubled but no longer haunted. "I still don't hear him, but I believe you. Thank you for telling me that. Thank you so much."

Chenoweth nods her head. "For what it's worth we've tried to keep his mother informed, but this nebula interferes with communications. Even so, you could try contacting her. I'm sure it would be good for both of you to talk to each other. I can even make it a medical order for you to have an open channel to her."

Anon's dark curtain lowers again, impenetrable. "Thank you, but no. I don't …I can't … It would not comfort her to talk to me. So it is." She bows her head again.

After waiting some more, Chenoweth sighs deeply. "I'll set up a channel anyway in case you change your mind. If either of you wants to talk to the other, you can." Anon is motionless. Chenoweth sighs again and departs. The yellow shirts take their positions on either side of the door to the cell.

Victorino wastes no time. The instant Chenoweth crosses the threshold to exit the brig, he enters, strides to Anon's cell, and stands at ease, flanked by the two yellow shirts standing at attention. He scowls at Anon, still seated cross-legged on the floor in her cell, emphatically ignoring his arrival.

The senior yellow shirt barks at Anon, "Attention, Ensign! Commander Victorino present!" Anon rises, languidly, and assumes the position.

Victorino knows the drill, if Anon does not. "Do you understand the charges against you?" he asks.

"Yes, Sir. I violated the Prime Directive. I disobeyed orders from my superiors." Anon's voice is trembling, her posture rigid with the effort to feign confidence. "I understand I have the right to representation to defend myself against these charges."

"Correct on all points," Victorino acknowledges. "Because of the nature of your … species," and Victorino clears his throat. "You are under orders not to communicate neurally with any group or individual, neither, uh, transmitting nor receiving. From this moment on. A monitoring device has been activated to detect the, uh, frequencies you transmit. If you are found to disobey this order, you will be placed in stasis until the date of your court martial. Do you understand?"

This time Anon makes no reply at all. Victorino suppresses a smirk of satisfaction as her face registers dismay before she assumes a blank expression again.

"Do you understand?" Victorino's voice booms.

"Yes, sir. I do understand. I have withdrawn all neural contact."

Victorino spins on his heel and leaves. The yellow shirts resume their watchful positions.

"Mor!" Andersen's voice is at its strongest when she's angry, and right now she's hysterical. "Mor, they made Soli go away! I swear I'll die without her! She'll die if she's all alone again! Mor!"

Not her mother, but the aide comes running. "Mor's at work, Janay. You know that, right? You know that. What do you need? How can I help?"

Andersen's eyes fill and overflow. "I need my mother. I need my sister. You can't help! No, wait. You can, oh, please, thank you. Please, could you set up communication with Starfleet, and with the Enterprise. The contact info is all in my computer."

The aide hurries to the console; she frowns in concentration and confusion. Andersen hasn't been this animated in all the time she has been working with her, and she wants to encourage it, no matter how unhinged the reason. Her fingers shake and hesitate as Andersen step-by-step coaches her in how to set up messages to officers of high rank, including identifying information, confirming voice print, and storage mechanisms to make call-ups simple and fast.

By the time the sequences are complete, Andersen's voice has fallen to a hoarse whisper. She starts to dictate the first message, but the aide stops her. "Some anesthetic tea with honey first, Janay. You've done very well – that's the most you've spoken since I arrived. But you don't want to damage yourself in the process."

"Bah," Andersen croaks. "Not that horrible anesthetic tea. Chamomile, please. Honey's good. Thank you so much for your help. I don't mean to be demanding."

As the aide flutters to boil water and brew the tea, she chatters, "I'm happy to help. And you're really not demanding at all, you're so easy. Oh, the stories I could tell … But what's this about, Janay dear?"

Andersen closes her eyes. "Sorry. Can't really explain. Too complicated. Throat hurts. Later." The appearance of repose is deceiving. Her mind is seething. " _That bastard. They'll be sorry. I'll fill up their message queues until they won't know what hit them. It's inhumane. Dr. Chenoweth probably doesn't even know, and Soli won't tell her. But I will_."

The tea is brought over in a sippy cup, and Andersen clutches the handle and base. "I can do it," she reassures the aide. "Could you do one more thing and set up the voice actuation feature? It's pretty standard."

The aide agreeably taps the sequence of icons. Shaking with outrage and adrenaline, Andersen hands back the cup and closes her eyes again. The aide leaves her to her agitated rest.

The door closes, and Andersen's eyes open. She forms a bed-ridden action plan. " _Soli first, then, let me see…Spock, Kirk, Starfleet Command. No, Dr. Chenoweth before Mr. Spock. Even if she tells me to MYOB. I don't care. I will get satisfaction. And Cacophony. I'll bet they don't know."_

She stretches and squirms to a more upright position. She realizes the aide was right – she is more energized than she has been since her return. But then she winces at the alien sound of her voice. "Computer, open message to Ensign Anon."

"Damn," she thinks, "I hope the voice print recognition works for the officer level communication. If I didn't know it was me I'd never believe it my own self."

"Channel is open. Begin message." The computer doesn't mind her growling. That's good.

"Soli, believe it or not it's me. Sorry I sound like a cross between a frog and a bear. Much easier in your head. I'm starting my own personal protest to restore your neural communication, at least with me. They'll rue the day they ever messed with the Andersen sisters. But how are you doing? I hope you get this." Andersen's voice fails altogether. She musters an "End of message. Send." Then she slides back down to prone, recovering for her next call.

Simbollah opens her music stand outside Anon's cell, as she has done daily for ten days, and assembles her flute. "Hey, Anon, what'll it be today? The rest of our compadres will be here at 1800 hours, but I'm on duty then, so let's do music we can do as a duet."

Anon had been exercising on the floor and now rises. She approaches slowly, stretching out her legs. "Yah. High duet. That will be good."

Simbollah studies her friend's face through the force field. Not for the first time, she glowers at the yellow shirts who refuse ever to turn the damn thing off, but she hides her scowl quickly by blowing into her flute, innocently acting out her usual practice to warm up the instrument. Anon is clean, well-fed, fit – she ought to be, Simbollah reflects; every time she comes here Anon is compulsively exercising – but her eyes are sunken and her hair is uncombed.

"Still can't get in my head yet? You know I love making music when you do." Simbollah asks this every other day, knowing what the answer will be, but trying to give her friend hope that sometime in the near future everything will be normal again. They are almost halfway through the nebula; once they are free of it they can warp back to Starfleet headquarters, the stupid court martial will take place, and Anon will be cleared of all charges. Definitely. Probably. Maybe. Hope and music are all Simbollah has to offer.

"Nope. Orders. You know. Nothing has changed."

Not true. Anon has changed. She really does look worn down, not unlike the weeks after Andersen's death. Simbollah is reluctant to say anything that might make things worse but, like the pirate Frederick, she chances the consequences. "Are you getting your sleep okay? You look so tired, and your hair is kind of a mess. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Oh!" Anon puts her hands to her head, runs her fingers through her disheveled hair, drops to her knees and crawls under her berth, emerging with the brush. "I threw it at he force field, and it ricocheted off. Then I didn't care, but I don't want to be a wreck when my friends visit. Thanks for reminding me." She yanks the brush through the tangles.

Simbollah gives up and gives in, "So what do you think? Mozart? Bach? Something Celtic?"

Anon finally smiles. "Bach. Always."

"Sweet and cheerful?"

They settle on a minuet, agreeing to move along to a Scottish dance and conclude with Mozart. Simbollah begins, and Anon joins her; Simbollah notes with relief the light returning to her friend's eyes as she sings.

Two weeks later, Chenoweth strolls into the brig. The guards step between her and Anon's cell, and one rebuffs her, "There is no exam scheduled. You'll have to get permission from Commander Victorino to turn off the force field."

Chenoweth holds up her hands. "No tricorder, see? I'm not here to examine Ensign Anon. I just want to talk to her. As her attending. Through the force field is fine. I don't need anyone's permission."

The yellow shirts pull apart and allow her to pass. Anon's back is to the doorway; she is jumping from the floor to her berth, balancing on her toes on the edge, and dropping down again, slapping her hands on the floor as she lands. She sings as she repeats the series, an unrecognizable combination of lyrics and melodies in different keys. "You gotta jump down, turn around, pick a bale of cotton. Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas, gas, gas. Jump down, turn around pick a bale of hay. Might as well jump. Jump! Go ahead, jump."

Intrigued, Chenoweth watches her repeat the exercise and song four times before interrupting.

"Ensign Anon."

Anon had just leapt onto the edge of the berth; startled, she turns to look over her shoulder, recognizes her visitor and cringes, then drops down to land lightly. She pulls herself to her full height, clenches her fists, and walks toward the door, stopping just before the force field.

"What has happened?" Anon's face twists in apprehension, and Chenoweth quickly speaks.

"I have good news, Ensign. Good news." Anon's hands are still balled up, but her face smooths, and she nods for Chenoweth to continue.

"Without going into detail, Dr. McCoy is definitely on the mend. Dr. Rollins insisted I tell you that your bio-samples provided the answer. He said it wouldn't be breaking any privilege to say so, since it was your suggestion. Is that true? Oh, Ensign, breathe deeply, dear. You're going to make yourself faint!"

For Anon had been holding her breath, and on hearing the news begins to hyperventilate. Her fists press into her belly, and she falls to her knees. She looks up at Chenoweth, follows the instructions to inhale and exhale slowly, and eventually she beams. Chenoweth crouches down to her level.

"So is it true? Did you make a medical recommendation to Dr. Rollins?"

Anon nods. "Kinda sorta not really. Leonard … Dr. McCoy told me he had acquired a parasite, the Rrannimmese said that I had had it, so I figured that Dr. Rollins might find whatever factor lets us defeat the little monsters in my blood or maybe my liver tissue. I guess he found it! I'm so very happy, Dr. Chenoweth. Tell Dr. Rollins thank you, thank you for me, will you please?"

Chenoweth pushes herself to a stand, and Anon follows suit, both grinning broadly.

"Dr. Rollins will be thanking you! He thought he had isolated the factor a couple of days ago, but it wasn't until today that Dr. McCoy's liver function improved enough for him to be sure. He has been stomping around the lab, swearing he will testify on your behalf at the court martial and serve your confinement himself if you aren't cleared. He says the credit is really all on you. He's a fan. So am I."

Anon hangs her head. "I wish I could say the same, but I still don't like doctors. Not to say I'm not grateful, I just don't like 'em. Not even you. Sorry. It's on principle, not personal."

Chenoweth laughs and shakes her head. "Of course not. The principle is ridiculous, but you already know that."

Anon smiles fleetingly, then frowns and asks, "Did you tell his mother and Julie yet? Mrs. McCoy and his sister? They'll be so relieved. They adore him." The caring words don't match her expression.

Chenoweth frowns as well at the sudden change in Anon's demeanor. "Not me. Dr. Rollins is the attending, remember? And he did try; he has sent messages out, but we haven't received any replies so we can't be sure the news reached them. We'll be out of here soon enough, and he can have direct contact. Dr. Rollins is looking forward to talking with the mother, and the sister, too. Of course, soon Dr. McCoy will be well enough to talk to them himself. You could try to send them a message yourself, you know."

"No. I can't." Anon turns away, and the joy that had poured out of her has evaporated.

Chenoweth is mystified but having been rebuffed twice on the subject lets it slide. "Okay then, Ensign. Have it your way. I just wanted to let you know what had happened." Now it is Chenoweth who turns away, and she leaves the brig.

McCoy awakens without pain for the first time since the early days of Yellow Baby. Thank the lord for Rollins's liberal use of sedation. He lies peacefully for a moment, eyes closed, listening to the monitors, a conversation elsewhere wafting through his ward, thankful to feel better.

He opens his eyes to the concerned face of Rollins, hovering over him with a hypo-spray at the ready. McCoy raises his hand and waves the hypo away. "No need, Rollins. No pain. But thanks, anyway." His voice is a ruin after weeks of disuse, but no matter. "Bring me up to speed, Rollins. What, why, how. But first, when. What time is it, and what day is it?

He must be better to be able to quote from "Auntie Mame." Soli will be pleased. Can't wait to see her.

Rollins reaches over and places the hypo on a tray, then pulls up a rolling stool. Beginning as requested with star date and time, and ending by projecting images on the monitor of the damage the parasitic organism had inflicted on McCoy's liver, he covers the lengthy process of diagnosis, multiple transplants, research, treatment failures and ultimate success.

McCoy is pleased to have no difficulty in staying awake while following the story. At its end, he notes that Rollins appears to be the more tired of the two of them, with deep circles under his bloodshot eyes and a three-day growth of beard.

McCoy moistens his lips and realizes his own full beard is still undisturbed; he relishes the thought of a hot shower and a close shave. And Soli. Especially Soli. His heart beats faster, and his groin tightens. He can hear the monitors reacting and shifts his position in an attempt to fool the readings. Ouch. Big mistake. Abdomen still tender. So, change the subject.

"You look like you could use some sleep, Rollins. Why don't you knock off for a while? I'm good." Then, oh, so casually, "Can I have visitors?"

Rollins nods as he answers. "You've been having visitors right along. You just didn't know it. The captain has been here a couple of times a day, every day. Thank god he will finally be satisfied with your treatment."

He rubs his short 'fro vigorously. "I'll take you up on that. I'll stay on call, but I'm pretty sure you won't need me. You've been measurably improving for a couple of days, and not needing pain relief and sedation is the clearest indicator yet. Good to have you back."

Rollins exits the ward, and McCoy overhears him giving his orders to the rest of the team on duty, and then the swoosh of the doors as his attending physician leaves for some well-earned rest. McCoy cautiously raises his arms and laces his hands behind his head. Other than a brief twinge, the movement does no harm, and his new position helps him feel more himself.

Not for the first nor the last time, he rues the loss of Rollins to a well-deserved promotion to Chief Medical Officer in a few months' time. He experiences a rush of gratitude for Rollins, both his medical and research expertise, with this near-fatal illness. Funny he didn't mention visits from Anon.

He mentally reviews Rollins's description of the Rrannimmese parasite's modus operandi, and the immunological factors he had coaxed out of Anon's blood and liver samples to successfully combat the critter. Anon's blood and liver? McCoy frowns.

What had Rollins said? That as soon as they were on the Enterprise, he had transplanted McCoy's own stored liver cells. It bought time. Yes, but the healthy liver cells were attacked as well. What else? That Rollins was already looking at Anon's tissue samples. He knew to do that. How did he know?

McCoy closes his eyes, tries to piece together what he just learned and what little he can remember of his last days on Rrannimm. His eyes snap open. How the hell did he get from Rrannimm to the Enterprise? He was never left alone once he got sick – oh god, never, not physically nor mentally; the neural communication headache was nonstop. He had thought, whenever he could think at all, that he would die there.

He should have died there. Obeying the Prime Directive entails that risk; non-interference means no contact, period. And it's Prime, not Preferred. But here he is, alive and well, or at least better, on the Enterprise. How? He closes his eyes again.

He knows, now, that he was concussed when he fell into the … They called it a temple. He was called God-Man because he had been found coming out of the temple, which in their lore – no, their neural history – had been made by the gods. But the concussion wasn't his biggest problem.

He knows, now, that he experienced ECT in a massive dose.

He knows, now, that he didn't know anything for a very long … well, damn, he knows today's date, but how long has he been here?

He has recollections of Soli: comforting him, fixing him, making love to him. It feels like a dream – a beautiful dream, but nothing more than a dream. He remembers not remembering. He was confused; in all honesty, he was terrified.

He helped with births, yes, that's right. Shaman had an herb remedy with an astringent effect; it helped constrict the blood vessels after delivery to stop bleeding.

McCoy wants some for Soli and her many bruises and bleeding injuries. Could he acquire some? Maybe he can concoct a hypo-spray solution for her. Could he return to Rrannimm for samples? Is the Enterprise orbiting Rrannimm? Once again, he has no idea.

McCoy feels as agitated as he was when he was lost and confused on Rrannimm. His heart is pounding, he has lowered his arms to his sides, fists clenched, and his eyes are wide open. Based on long experience, he can hear that the monitors are just this side of sounding an alarm and he forces himself to relax, to think of less disturbing subjects

The astringent herb worked for mild bleeding; Shaman was helpless in the face of hemorrhaging, but he, McCoy, stepped in and squeezed the uterus, compressing the muscle and arteries, until the natural contraction of the blood vessels took place, and the mother survived, weak from blood loss but able to recover. He remembers that clearly. He taught Shaman how the trick worked. They only lost two instead of the more than half dozen women who were otherwise doomed.

Then he got sick. The progression of symptoms was clearly parasitic in nature, had to have been locally acquired. In his dream he told that to Soli. But how did Rollins know?

Shaman was not worried at first. Everybody gets this, he said. You should have had it when you were a weanling, but you'll get over it soon enough. Yellow Baby. That's where he learned what they called it, from Shaman.

But he didn't get over it. He became so ill that everyone, including and especially him, knew he was dying. From simple Yellow Baby. They flooded him with love and care and compassion and drove him mad with neural communication. He knew it was his liver by the cast of his skin. Yellow Baby indeed. He was in such pain, couldn't eat, eventually couldn't even hold down water, and they wouldn't leave his brain alone. They sang and comforted, voices upon voices, and he was in anguish.

Then he dreamed Soli came and chased the voices from his mind. He dreamed she restored him to who he was. She fixed him as she said he had fixed her. It had to have been a dream; it was askew, fuzzy. He made love to her, sweet and frantic, a release but painful; he knew he was dying and thought he'd die in her arms. Such a dream. And he talked to her. In his dream where he knew he would die soon.

But he didn't die. He should have, but he didn't. His memories of Anon had to have been a dream because she wasn't allowed on Rrannimm.

And he is back on the Enterprise. He shouldn't be, but he is. How'd they manage to evade his healers, his constant companions?

Feeling more confident about what he does and, especially, what he doesn't know, he calls Nurse Chapel. "Christine! Nurse!" She hurries in and smiles at him, obviously delighted. She shouldn't be smiling, he thinks but doesn't say, when everything is wrong. Is he dreaming again?

"Dr. McCoy! So wonderful to see you awake and alert. Can I adjust your position so you're sitting up a bit? Don't try to do it yourself, you'll be sorry." Chapel presses the buttons that lift his upper body and bend his legs at the knees. It feels good but doesn't distract him from the important questions.

"Nurse, how did I get here? I was on the planet Rrannimm, for a long time, for months. How did I get back to the Enterprise?"

Chapel's eyes widen. "You were beamed aboard, direct to Sickbay, with Dr. Rollins. You were terribly ill, Doctor; I'm not surprised you don't remember. I am surprised Dr. Rollins didn't mention it. What else do you need to know?"

Ah, Christine Chapel. Perceptive, no nonsense. Okay, so what does he need to know? He takes his time reflecting on the holes in his memory.

"At some point after I got sick, I was never left alone. Not physically, not mentally. They were trying to ease my pain … Who am I kidding. They were trying to console me through my dying. I … They … I can't figure how I could have been brought back without violating the Prime Directive. You said I was transported with Dr. Rollins – how did he reach me? And how did Scotty manage it?"

To his shock, McCoy sees Chapel's eyes fill with tears. She quickly brushes them away and regains her composure. "Dr. McCoy, I'm not the best person to discuss this. The Captain will be dropping by shortly – he's been here twice a day since …"

"Yes, I know that," McCoy interrupts. He did not start in a good place, and the path has been winding towards ever more ominous locales ever since. "Rollins didn't say anything about it, and now you're avoiding the subject. Am I still the Chief Medical Officer of the USS Enterprise?"

"Yes, Doctor," Chapel whispers.

"Then I demand you tell me what the hell happened that nobody wants to talk about." He hitches himself into more of a sitting position, and gasps with the pain his movement caused.

Chapel leaps into nurse mode and raises his bed to accommodate his preferred position; he leans back into the support, breathing heavily, but not deterred. "What happened, Nurse?" he mutters.

The tears return. "I really don't know all the details, Doctor. But," she hastens to add, seeing the fire in his eyes, "you're right about violating the Prime Directive."

She swipes ferociously at the tears again, but they flow freely. "Dr. McCoy, it was Ensign Anon. Soli. I don't know why she was on the planet, but she was, and she left the rest of the away team to find you. She made contact with somebody, a Rrannimmese. She went to where you were staying, she roped another couple of Rrannimmese into carrying you most of the way to the shuttle. She even inveigled a native into meeting the rest of the away team, including Dr. Rollins, and … oh, Dr. McCoy, she absolutely shredded the Prime Directive, and I'm glad and grateful and ..."

Chapel chokes back a sob. "She … Leonard, she was arrested. She's in the brig. She's going to be court martialed. I'm so sorry to be the one to tell you. Please, talk to Captain Kirk. She saved your life, Prime Directive be damned. And it's – Rrannimm is her planet, they are her people. This is so wrong …"

Bile rises in McCoy's throat, and he turns his head away from Chapel, fighting to remain in control. When he feels a semblance of calm he turns back to her and mumbles, "I do remember she was with me. I thought I had dreamed it. The brig. Goddamn. I appreciate your candor, Christine. Rest assured, I will be talking to Captain Kirk about this. How can they arrest her for talking to her own people?"

"I'll bring the captain in as soon as he gets to Sickbay."

"Thank you, Nurse." McCoy settles in to wait.

"Bones."

McCoy's eyes snap open at the sound of his friend's and captain's voice. He had dozed off, wonders how much time has passed. "Jim. Good to see you."

Kirk smiles. "Good to see something other than your eyelids. Love the beard, by the way. You're an inspiration to us all."

McCoy chuckles, then winces. Rollins had so casually recounted the "multiple transplants," but McCoy can feel every last one of them. He pushes ahead nevertheless.

"I found out Soli Anon is in the brig for saving my life. What the hell, Jim." McCoy is just as unsparing as when they met so many years ago on their way to the Academy.

Kirk's face reflects first surprise, then resignation at the unfortunate direction of this first conversation since McCoy left for the mission on Rrannimm. "I was hoping for a few pleasantries – hi, how are you, feeling much better thanks, what's the latest? But that's not you. Bones. Look, I'm not happy about this either, but Starfleet regulations are clear and unequivocal."

"Cut the crap, Jim. Whenever you can't be bothered with Starfleet regulations, you disregard them. Why this? Why now? And the brig, for crissakes. Where she's going to go? What's the threat? This is BS."

McCoy shuts up. The abdominal pain is shooting through him. He attempts to breathe evenly, and the pain abates. "And anyway, she wasn't supposed to be on the surface in the first place. Whose bonehead decision was it to bring her down? Yours, I expect. Of course, she went off to find her family – that's why she was supposed to remain on the Enterprise. Most predictable thing in the world. We discussed this, dammit." Another sharp pang makes him gasp, and he forces himself to be calm.

Kirk lets McCoy's rant run its course then responds evenly. "Let's be clear, Bones. She went off to find you. She called on her family to help her get you back. I'll make sure you get to review all the logs, all the painful details that went into Anon's being on the surface. It was nobody's first choice. But Bones, here's the thing. Having determined she needed to be on the planet, Spock specifically ordered her not to contact any of the locals. She disregarded his order first chance she got. I've never seen him angry, but when he found out she had blown him off, yes, he was angry."

"I've seen him angry, Jim. When Khan got you killed, he was angry. Soli disobeyed him in order to save me. That got him angry? I don't believe it. It's still BS. But please, go on."

Kirk has missed his friend's humane voice; he begins to suspect he may have handled things differently had McCoy been available for consultation. But you don't plant corn in the fall. He continues, "The other person who was adamant we follow protocol was Victorino. Don't start, Bones," for McCoy was clearly gathering himself for another outburst.

"I'm not popular with the brass either. I've been lucky, made some gut calls that worked out, but the ensign and I are peas in a pod. We do not belong in a hierarchical organization. Unfortunately, she doesn't have the rank to get away with disobeying orders to do the right thing, so yes, she's in the brig where technically she belongs. Not a soul on the Enterprise will testify against her, except maybe for Victorino. Even Spock admits that logic dictated she do what she did, and Rollins has been emphatic that if we had delayed any further in bringing you back, you would not have survived."

Kirk's passion has carried him this far, but now he falters. "You were my first friend in this crazy adventure. I've got a file full of arguments against further punishment of the woman who brought you back from the dead. I'll resign my commission if she is not completely exonerated."

McCoy is partially mollified. "Here's another question. I've been open to her, but she hasn't contacted me neurally. I'm guessing you know why."

Kirk's lip curls. "Yes. Victorino doesn't trust her. Ordered her to shut down that part of her. Bones, I know you are okay with it, but for everyone else, it, well, after the Scream I don't ever want anything to do with neural communication again. I supported that order. So sue me."

"I may just do that. She needs neural contact. It's medically indicated, JIm. I don't suppose you ran it by her attending. Chenoweth would have told you the same thing."

Kirk shakes his head. "How would I know that? I'm not privy to her medical records. But nobody has brought any issues to my attention. She's fine."

McCoy glowers, but says merely, "You're wrong. She's not fine. I want to see her, Jim."

Kirk stretches, grins, and strolls to the door. "That, my friend, is up to your attending physician, not me. Rest up, Bones. I'll be back to see you this evening. Let's hope for a little less rancor, shall we? Oh, and we'll be out of this accursed nebula in a few days. We have to be ready for reports to Starfleet, a court martial, the Rrannimm reveal, and god knows what else. If your doctor gives you the all clear, or even a some clear, I want you at the briefing to review our actions and make our plans."

Uhura pulls out her earbud. "Captain, there are thousands of messages queued up. I don't understand. This is more than we usually get in a year. It's going to take a least a half hour for me to sort through and direct them. Oh. Captain, over nine hundred are for you."

"Nine hundred? Lieutenant Uhura, before you start working the messages, please notify the senior officers that the briefing will be postponed by three hours. What the hell has been going on! Are we at war with the Romulans?"

Uhura scrolls through her board, then smiles. "Maybe, sir, but not with the Romulans. Most of your messages are from Lieutenant Andersen. 839 to be exact."

Kirk twists in his chair. "839 messages from Janay Andersen? I'll look at them in my chambers, thank you, Uhura."

"Anon?" Simbollah peers through the force field.

For the first time Anon is not compulsively exercising. She's not meditating either. She is lying on her side on her berth, her back to the door.

Simbollah tries again. "Anon, are you awake?"

Anon rolls over so she is facing the door. Her eyes are open, but she's looking at the floor, not at her friend. "I'm awake, Simbollah. Thanks for coming, but I don't feel like making music today. I'm sorry you came all this way. I should have tried to get a message to you. Or something."

Simbollah sets down her music stand and sits cross-legged on the floor with her flute in her lap. "I don't mind. I'd want to see you whether we play or not. But if you change your mind, I'm totally ready. Want to talk about it?"

"Not really. I'd rather listen. Can you talk instead?"

Simbollah leans back on her hands, stretches, looks at the ceiling. She was prepared to make music not conversation and has to reset. "Okay, yes. Something funny or weird. I haven't decided which. Did you know we're out of the nebula?"

Anon shakes her head. Simbollah continues, "Well, we are. And the Enterprise got flooded with messages. Guess what. They're almost all from Andersen." Anon sits up at this.

"What do you mean 'flooded?' By Janay? Do tell."

"I got four messages myself. Random stuff, like stream of consciousness. Telling me you couldn't get in my head which I already knew of course. Thanking me for helping you when she was dead – that was uncomfortable, I can tell you. Hoping we were playing lots of music together, reminiscing about when Cacophony was founded, saying the filter I made to clean up the video from when she, you know, should be named after me. Random. But fun. Weird and fun. Both."

Anon hops down from the berth and approaches the door, then flops down opposite Simbollah. "You said flooded. Four messages is not a flood. So, what else?"

"I heard everybody has gotten at least one message from her. Most just got a couple. And rumor has it that the Captain, Mr. Spock, and Commander Victorino got hundreds. I had to create extra channels for Uhura to access all of them, and also there were bunches more from Starfleet Command. Everyone's in a tizzy." Simbollah smiles in satisfaction and sees the same look reflected by Anon.

"Ah, Janay. Never get between an Andersen and her sister. She went nuts when she heard Victorino order me not to get in anyone's head. But she doesn't just get mad, she gets going. I wonder whether she tried to send any messages to me."

SImbollah grabs her flute, rises, and picks up the music stand as well. "Good point. Let's see if the guards will let you access your messages." She leans as close to the force field as she dares and whispers, "if not, I'll hack your account and find out."

When asked, the aforementioned guards immediately put the kibosh on Simbollah's request. "All messages must be screened before a prisoner can read, hear, or watch them."

Simbollah winks at Anon and scurries out with a "Ta-ta for now" singsong. Anon returns to her berth and immediately goes fetal, so she doesn't overhear Simbollah gasping, "Oh, Dr. McCoy! You're … Um … Good to see you, Sir. Doctor. To see you out and about. Bye."

"Soli?"

McCoy is in a roller, too weak to walk all the way from Sickbay to the brig but overjoyed to be away from the ward at last. Not so different from the brig, upon reflection, when your freedom depends on someone else's verdict. Now he is witness to a real prison and is disturbed by what he sees.

Two guards, belligerent at his arrival, reluctantly standing aside so he can approach but not enter Anon's cell. His beloved, curled in fetal position on her berth. He looks left and right at the two guards; it is clear neither one has the least interest in their charge.

He suppresses his rage, reminding himself that Soli Anon Andersen is an odd duck; he has known that from the start. She scares the willies out of their boss the Chief of Security. He knows that, too. Guards doing what they were ordered is all. Changing their minds is not why he's here.

"Soli." A little louder, but not sure it will penetrate the depths to which she descends during meditation.

"Soli, it's Leonard." There is another moment of stillness, then her movement is so abrupt he reflexively pushes the reverse direction button. Anon has gone from fetal on the berth to upright at the doorway with no pause. Her hands press on the door frame. She stares at him, then her eyes cloud over.

"Hey, none of that, dear heart. If your third eyelid kicks in how do you know it's me and not some far less good-looking imposter?"

Anon laughs and her nictitating membranes retreat; she scrutinizes him. "You've looked better …"

McCoy interrupts her with as hearty a laugh as his tender torso can manage. "If you were an MD, I'd demand your assignment to my team in an instant. Your bedside manner is a perfect fit."

Anon raises her eyebrows. "What I was going to say was that you've also looked worse, and …"

"Oh, my mistake. That's so much better." McCoy laughs harder, so that he has to fold his arms across his abdomen to suppress the pain.

Anon fails in an effort to look insulted, then smiles self-consciously. "Show me your eyes, Dr. McCoy. Your sclera. Let me be sure."

McCoy complies with the command, rolling his eyes so hard that now he makes his orbital sockets ache.

Anon beams with satisfaction. "They look white! Your skin is still funny-looking, but your eyes prove you are definitely better."

"Interesting," McCoy drawls. "My attending physician said much the same thing, but without making me feel like a freak. Kidding, Soli, I'm kidding."

But Anon stops smiling and drops her arms. It's McCoy's turn to study her. There's a deep crease down the center of her forehead; now that she has stopped smiling she's biting her lower lip; her sunken eyes have sharply defined crows' feet. She looks twenty years older. Maybe a hundred years older by Rrannimmese standards. It's obvious to him why, but he pursues the question anyway.

"I told Dr. Chenoweth you had been ordered to stop neural communication. She didn't know. She sent a countermand to Security. You look like you haven't gotten the news yet. To quote you to yourself, 'you've looked better.' Meaning you are still shut down neurally. Does she know this?"

Anon's immediate avoidance of eye contact confirms his observation. "Maybe. I didn't tell her."

So that's a no. McCoy sighs. Maybe someday he'll understand why Anon thinks defending herself is a character flaw, but today it's on him.

"And I see no console connection in your cell. You've not been able to listen to your music either? You told me how much it helped on Bolarus 9. It would help even more now, and Dr. Chenoweth would have gladly …"

Anon shakes her head. "My friends come every day to play for me, Leonard. And with me. So it is. I can't complain. I haven't complained. I'm fine. Mostly."

"Of course you are. Liar. I'll make sure you'll have an audio console by the end of the day, okay? And get in my head right now. Even a short while will help you, I promise. Doctor's orders."

No hint of relief crosses her face. Instead, she pleads, "Leonard, I'm in so much trouble already. Let it be. I don't want to make things worse. I'll get by. Simbollah said we're out of the nebula, so I should be court martialed soon and it will be over. Please let it play out."

McCoy chuckles. "Even if I were willing, which I am not, I couldn't. Starfleet Command has ordered the Enterprise to justify the level of Security in your case. Apparently, a couple of thousand messages from your sister have had their intended effect."

The tension is broken. Anon starts to giggle, then laughs as she hasn't in months. "Simbollah heard rumors of something like that. Oh, Janay."

McCoy snorts. "She's definitely your sister, Soli Andersen. Two of a kind. So even if you don't want to transmit neurally, you really should feel free to listen."

Anon considers his words. McCoy can tell because she refuses to look at him and begins pacing. After exactly eighteen circuits of her cell (he counts them), McCoy poses a question to disrupt of her runaway train of thought. "I still don't understand what happened, Soli. I'm sure Captain Kirk or Mr. Spock would have come up with some way to pluck me away from Rrannimm without violating the Prime Directive. Why did you throw away your career, your life like that?"

The interruption works, and Anon returns to the doorway. She stares at him as though he'd disappear if she blinked. Then first one side and then both sides of her mouth turn up. "Pshaw. You would have done the same."

McCoy is the one who blinks. Multiple times. Rapidly. "Pshaw? You dismiss the Prime Directive with 'Pshaw?'"

"Yah. I'm so impulsive, you know. And Dr. Chenoweth said I saved you. And nothing else mattered. And anyway, what does the Prime Directive have to do with life and love?

That is actually a question with no answer, and McCoy is wise enough not to try, so he merely smiles at her as he shakes his head, which reminds him of his exhaustion. "Well, my dear, I'm going to disobey my doctor's orders to return to Sickbay and sneak back to my quarters instead. Wish me luck."

"Good luck," Anon responds perfunctorily. "Just don't fall on the floor when you climb into bed."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." McCoy was tending to laughter but is struck by the face of his beloved. As far as he can tell, she still hasn't blinked, her face unwavering, drinking him in. He pushes himself to his feet, trembling with the effort, puts his hands against the doorway of her cell, leans until he can feel the static of the forcefield on his face. Anon cups her hands around the silhouette of his head; he can see the forcefield sparking on her side of the door, reacting to her proximity, but she holds still.

"I do have confidence in you, Leonard. Just be careful, please. Life is short, especially …" Her voice trails off; he waits but she makes no attempt to finish her thought, so he finishes for her.

"Life is especially short for humans." She pulls away from the forcefield and casts her eyes downward. McCoy, his legs ready to give out, sinks back onto his roller, and smiles ruefully up at her.

"I know, Soli." She looks down at him. "When you fixed me, I assimilated some other things, too. Your people can live for several hundred years. Humans barely one hundred. The only ancient Rrannimmese I met were men, but you had learned about a very few women also. The only reason that most of the elderly Rrannimmese are men is that women tend to die in childbirth."

Anon shrugs. "Not 'tend to.' If they are fertile, always. My father, when I told him I was mated but had no children, he called it 'the blessing of long life.' Everyone wants children on Rrannimm, but the women always, sooner or later, mostly sooner, die in childbirth. Like my mother did. Like my sister will. We mate for life, but that mostly affects the men. They …"

Anon takes a deep, shuddering breath before she can continue. "They have to bury their mates over and over until they can't bear it. My father had four mates – my mother was his first – but after the fourth one died he stopped taking a mate. One man, four women, four surviving children – that's not even replacement level. The Rrannimmese are dying out. Have been for generations."

McCoy slumps back in his roller in exhaustion and closes his eyes. He can't look at Soli's face, so sad, so bewildered. He has no solution This runs counter to natural selection; Life is supposed to find a way. What has gone wrong with the Rrannimmese?

He's too tired to contemplate it right now. And anyway, he'd rather run it by Rollins while he's still aboard. He'll have, if not a solution, at least some experimental approaches. Of course, the other obstacle is the lack of genetic samples. Anon's genome can't supply enough data points on her own.

He sits upright in his roller, his eyes wide, ignoring the sharp pain that shoots across his torso. The clothing that was given to him – that should have trace amounts of DNA from the people who made it. God, it had better not have been trashed after he was returned to the Enterprise. Anon notices his burst of energy. "What are you thinking, my love?"

"I'm thinking we owe it to you and your people to decipher what's been going on for generations. I'm going try to find the clothing your people made for me and pass it along to Rollins. There should be DNA from the weavers that can be analyzed and compared with yours to give us more data. We may not be able to solve this, but we surely can try."

"There's more than that. My family gave me presents that should have their DNA, and maybe others' too, on them. I figured you'd want to check it out so I asked Mr. Spock and he approved."

McCoy slumps back in the roller to listen. "But Leonard, my love, I don't know what happened to the stuff after I was arrested. The hairclip my sister gave me was bagged, but there was clothing, a chewed-on nut my sweet niece gave me, sandals for you …"

McCoy smiles with the pleasure of her company; Anon looks at him but doesn't return the smile. "What I can't figure is, how do you repair an entire species?"

McCoy sags again; the momentary stimulus has run its course, and he hasn't the reserves to go on.

"I don't know," he admits. "And in some ways, it's just a distraction I'm planning to hand off to Rollins because I'm obsessed with getting you out of the brig and cleared at your court martial and back with me. I supposed to be part of a big powwow later today, but I'm going to be useless. I'm afraid I'm not thinking clearly."

Anon smiles, "I love your thinking. Get some rest. Visit me again when you're able."

McCoy's not ready to leave, much as his body is begging him to. His thoughts are in turmoil. Union fixed him, to be sure, but it also wreaked havoc. He has made his best effort to keep their problems at bay; now it just seems fake. "Soli. My dearest. We won't … we can't …"

Unexpectedly, she smiles. "We are the most star-crossed lovers whose stars have ever crossed, aren't we? I am probably going to outlive you by two hundred years. And like my father; I will never mate again after you're gone. Plus, I'm going to lose all my friends, my family, even Niels and his children. I don't get why H thinks this is such a great story. It's so heartless."

McCoy seeks to cheer her. "But Darlin' maybe H will decide to resurrect me, and then Janay again, and then me again until you are so sick of us that you beg for release."

He is gratified to see her smile, and then she laughs with gusto. "Yah. Maybe. I don't think so. Take care of yourself, my love. Oh, and Leonard? Do something for me? Go back to Sickbay, not your quarters. They want to help you. Let them."


	18. Chapter 18

**Postlude: Forgiveness' Embrace**

Victorino was forced to minimize Anon's restrictions in the brig. Starfleet Command had spoken: For a non-violent offender, confinement was sufficient. Unlimited visitation and communication with family were appropriate; using both force field and guards were not – pick one or the other. Kirk allows his Chief Security Officer the dignity of advising the prisoner of the loosening of her constraints as though it had been his decision.

With no more limitations on visitors, a steady stream flows in and out. Some are officers who merely wanted to convey their respect for the actions she took to rescue the Chief Medical Officer. Others are science lab partners. Most are her friends and acquaintances from Movie Night and Cacophony. These last are the only visitors who never have to witness her battle to avoid going fetal. The lack of neural communication continues to extract its cost.

When the tsunami has receded and she has some alone time, Anon watches and listens to messages from her family that had accumulated. Janay alone had sent dozens of messages and managed somehow to find new and creative ways to rant about The Injustice Of It All in each and every message, but in a manner calculated to make Anon laugh.

Julie had sent several messages of encouragement and news of the children; Joe had sent a couple, and the children had sent drawings of Rocky Mountains and Fairyland.

Lastly, there is one unexpected message that arrived this very day. It is a voice message.

"Soli. This is Bonnie McCoy. I have been informed of your actions and your sacrifices for my son. I … I will do anything I can to support and defend you, both now and in the future. I regret my past words and deeds. I was wrong. Please forgive me."

Anon plays it again, and then plays it again. She murmurs, "Huh," and then saves the message. She meditates for several hours, unwrapping herself at last, getting into her pajamas, and going unconscious on her berth.

She awakens, flailing as usual. When she is fully awake, she stretches the full length of her body, her eyes shut, limbs extended.

Anon freezes; her eyes open wide. She looks down at her abdomen and touches it with her fingertips, tentatively at first. Then she palpitates and taps rhythmically on her belly as she speaks.

"Hello, Daughter. How wonderful to hear your song. Healer Chenoweth may be disappointed the CT2 didn't work, but Terran Father God-Man Healer Husband McCoy will be thrilled. Welcome, dear one. I love you so much." Anon begins to sing.

Was I incredible or was I incredible? One minor appearance, hardly more than a cameo as you film aficionados call it, and the protagonists could not stop talking about me. Even their getting my name wrong – Ache, Haitch – is obviously due to admiration, awe, downright obsequiousness if you know what you're looking at. And the precious idea that I'm going to ride to the rescue at the drop of a ten-gallon hat. Hilarious!

But enough about me. What did you think of my costumes? Every detail perfect, every curly hair in place. You can see now why I had to bow out of my ongoing commentary. You wouldn't have been able to find the story for its top character: me.

Until next time, I remain yours most affectionately, H


End file.
